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murder_at_the_reunion925

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					Word Count:       07/22/09=21,868   09/03/09=45,243
05/07/09=46       07/23/09=22,431   09/04/09=45,759
05/13/09=615      07/24/09=22,981   09/05/09=46,314
05/14/09=1,147    07/25/09=23,533   09/06/09=46,851
05/15/09=1,650    07/26/09=24,093   09/07/09=47,677
05/16/09=2,237    07/27/09=24,620   09/08/09=48,265
05/17/09=2,767    07/28/09=25,157   09/09/09=48,871
05/18/09=3,293    07/29/09=25,712   09/10/09=49,409
05/19/09=3,807    07/30/09=26,215   09/11/09=49,914
05/20/09=4,358    07/31/09=26,727   09/12/09=50,458
05/24/09=3,918    08/01/09=27,253   09/13/09=50,986
06/20/09=4,437    08/02/09=27,788   09/14/09=51,576
06/21/09=4,951    08/03/09=28,369   09/15/09=52,172
06/22/09=5,475    08/04/09=28,886   09/16/09=52,714
06/23/09=6,013    08/05/09=29,516   09/17/09=53,240
06/24/09=6,519    08/06/09=30,025   09/18/09=53,835
06/25/09=7,062    08/07/09=30,562   09/19/09=54,449
06/26/09=7,614    08/08/09=31,082   09/20/09=55,060
06/27/09=8,142    08/09/09=31,610   09/21/09=55,588
06/28/09=8.664    08/10/09=32,107   09/22/09=56,108
06/29/09=9,190    08/11/09=32,662   09/23/09=56,617
06/30/09=9,713    08/12/09=33,208   09/24/09=57,160
07/01/09=10,220   08/13/09=33,751   09/25/09=57,712
07/02/09=10,758   08/14/09=34,238
07/03/09=11,334   08/15/09=34,809
07/04/09=11,880   08/16/09=35,347
07/05/09=12,404   08/17/09=35,878
07/06/09=12,917   08/18/09=36,390
07/07/09=13,478   08/19/09=36,992
07/08/09=14,013   08/20/09=37,495
07/09/09=14,535   08/21/09=38,034
07/10/09=15,072   08/22/09=38,569
07/11/09=15,966   08/23/09=39,125
07/12/09=16,490   08/24/09=39,638
07/13/09=17,020   08/25/09=40,200
07/14/09=17,566   08/26/09=40,835
07/15/09=18,081   08/27/09=41,376
07/16/09=18,584   08/28/09=41,963
07/17/09=19,133   08/29/09=42,530
07/18/09=19,745   08/30/09=43,051
07/19/09=20,265   08/31/09=43,562
07/20/09=20,767   09/01/09=44,138
07/21/09=21,342   09/02/09=44,718
Jeff Talbot
A faint beeping noise sounded somewhere close to my head. It felt like I was lying on a concrete slab but it was
probably a hard bed. That's all I could figure out at first. I couldn't open my eyes, couldn't move. It was as
though I was frozen. I seemed to sink in and out of awareness, floating along.

After what seemed like a long time, I'd eventually deduced that I was in a hospital -- the smells, the sounds, all
told me that's where I was. But I didn't feel any pain, didn't feel anything. It was as though my body was
disconnected from my mind. And my mind was fuzzy and unfocused. The words, “I must be paralyzed.” went
screaming through my mind.

I couldn't remember any recent events. I had no idea what had happened to put me in the hospital. The last thing
I could remember was leaving my office at the university on a cold December evening, heading somewhere, but
I couldn't remember where.

I lay there, trying to concentrate on what was going on around me. There were hushed voices, footsteps coming
and going. I could hear what I thought were whispered conversations, but couldn't pick out any words.

No matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn't get past the cobwebs in my head. I gave up for awhile, letting
myself drift along in a sea of unknown sounds and voices. I had no sense of time. It felt like hours were passing
but it could have minutes or days.

It wasn't an unpleasant feeling. But not knowing what had happened, not knowing why I was in the hospital
was maddening. I'm very much an in-charge person and at the moment I was definitely not in charge.

As time passed, I began to notice a pattern to the sounds surrounding me. It seemed obvious that daytime
brought more sounds, more unintelligible voices. There came a long stretch of time with no voices that I
identified as the middle of the night. After the long period of silence, the faint sounds returned and then became
louder and more discernible.

I heard a voice and listened intently trying to understand the words. After a bit, I deciphered them to say, "Dr.
Talbot, my name is Marie and I'll be your nurse today. I'm just going to take your blood pressure and
temperature."

I thought I could feel the blood pressure cuff on my left upper arm but that may have been wishful thinking for
some kind of feeling. I thought I felt a touch of something inside my ear and speculated that the nurse had put a
digital thermometer in my ear to take my temperature.

What in God's name was going on? Why couldn't I open my eyes? Why couldn't I speak? What had happened
to me? Had I been in a car accident?

Finally, I heard the faint footsteps of the nurse departing, followed by metallic clanging in the distance, then the
voice of the nurse, or someone else, he couldn't tell. The voice was loud, saying in a strident tone: "Be careful
with those breakfast trays." I heard a phone ringing off in the distance and every once in awhile something that
sounded like the ding of an elevator.

Then there was relative silence again. The constant beeping was still there but that was all. I must be attached to
monitors that beeped or some kind of IV machinery.

I continued to drift in and out of awareness, seemingly with no ability to control my conscious mind.

One time as I surfaced to awareness again, I felt that I had something in my throat. Dear God, don't let me be on
a ventilator, I thought. Maybe it's a feeding tube not respirator tube.
Then to my surprise, I heard a woman's voice close to my head. It was a soft voice, warm and somehow
sounding as though the speaker was smiling. "Dr. Talbot, My name is Leslie Ann Davis. You probably won't
remember me but I was one of the people in your grief workshop that night..."

Grief workshop? What was she talking about? What was my grief workshop? I didn't recognize the voice and
didn't think I'd ever heard it before.

Then things began to go black again, and I could no longer hear the woman's voice.

Sometime later, I felt rather than heard a presence nearby. Then a woman's voice said, "Hello, again. It's me
Leslie Davis. I thought I'd stop by to visit for a minute."

"I've brought my laptop with me today. I thought I might get a little writing done in between times when we're
visiting."

Slowly I replayed the words in my head trying to make sense of them. We were going to visit? In between the
visiting, she was going to write? On the laptop? Somehow I couldn't wrap my mind around what her words
meant so I gave up. It seemed as though trying to figure it out made my brain ache.

The woman moved around the room and said some more things but I let myself float away, unable to
concentrate, unable to bear the ache that trying to concentrate seemed to cause. So my name was Dr. Talbot.
Yes, that sounded right. I was Dr. Jeffrey Talbot, clinical psychologist and university professor.

I wasn't having any difficulty remembering who I was or what I did or what my life had been up until that night
whenever what happened, happened.

I was 42 years old, a licensed counselor who had a private practice. I was also affiliated with Rivermont
University, where I taught a graduate course in clinical psychology. I was a widower. My wife Miriam had died
four years ago in a horrific train derailment outside Kansas City that claimed 192 victims.

Miriam and I have a daughter, Celia, who was now 14, going on the proverbial 30. She's absolutely perfect and
I regret it every day that Miriam isn't here to take as much delight in her as I did.

My Mom lived with Celia and me, having moved in with us when Miriam died. It was working out well. Mom
is an easy-going, loving person who takes a laid back approach to life.

My Dad died when I was in junior high, and Mom went to work as the school secretary at the high school,
much to my dismay when I started high school. But Mom was cool about our situation. She never embarrassed
me and it was almost as if we weren't related or she didn't know me. I survived the four years without any
painful episodes and was grateful to her for the way she handled what could have been an uncomfortable
situation. But that's Mom.

When I left for college, my grandmother, Mom's Mom, moved in with her. They had a grand old time together
with their crafts and projects, and I felt better about going away to school. I went to Northwestern for my
undergraduate degree and then to the University of Chicago for my two graduate degrees.

I visited some weekends and all holidays. During the summers, I found part-time jobs in Rivermont in order to
live at home and save money. I'd gotten scholarships to help with tuition, then worked part-time jobs to pay
living expenses.

When I finished my doctorate, I was fairly burned out. I knew I had to find a job but I didn't seem to have the
energy. One of my classmates was going on a mission to South America with his parents, who were both
ministers. He talked me into coming along for the ride, so to speak. Not having anything better in mind, I
agreed and went home to Rivermont to break the news to my Mom and Grandmom that it would be a few
months, six at the most, before I was home for good.

My news wasn't well-received. Evidently, Mom and Grandmom had been looking forward to my final
homecoming and this bend in the path was a disappointment to them.

I reassured them that it was just a temporary thing and that I'd be home to stay for good by Christmas. They
were mollified and actually seemed to like the idea of a mission. Once I'd reached my teens, I'd never been
much of a churchgoer, even though each Sunday, Mom and Grandmom had gently cajoled me to accompany
them.

Little did I know but I was going to meet my destiny on that mission.

_____________________________________________________________________



Leslie Anne Davis

The first time I went to see Dr. Talbot in his hospital room, I felt awkward about the visit. He was in what my
doctor told me was called a light coma -- which when I Googled it was defined as the highest state of coma,
right before consciousness, but obviously not consciousness.

The nurse on duty at the main desk on his part of the floor nodded and smiled at me as I walked by. She seemed
to know who I was and to think it was all right for me to visit him.

That first visit, I stood there silently at his bedside, looking down at his pale face and bandaged head.

He'd saved my life and I wanted to thank him, to talk to him, to make sure he was going to be all right. But I
could do none of those things.

I had to try anyway. "Dr. Talbot, My name is Leslie Davis. You probably won't remember me but I was one of
the people in your grief workshop that night..." I stopped there, not knowing how to continue. Should I say, the
night of the accident or the night that crazy man tried to kill you or what? I decided to leave it at that night.

But there was more to say. "I wanted to thank you for what you did, saving my life." I stopped, realizing how
lame that sounded. And being me, outspoken, frank, and sometimes letting the words tumble out of my mouth
without letting my brain do its necessary censoring work, I added, "That sounds stupid, using such weak words
for such a monumental thing as saving my life." I stopped talking again, feeling foolish and embarrassed to be
talking to a comatose man who had no idea I was there or who I was.

I only stayed about a minute or so that first visit before I walked back to my room at the other end of the hall.
My doctor had insisted on keeping me there until she was sure I had no residual effects from the head trauma
I'd suffered. I'd been diagnosed with a mild concussion but my doctor, Elise Rogers, who had also become a
friend, was what I considered overly conservative. She wouldn't release me until she was satisfied I was back to
my old self -- she had jokingly said she couldn't use her regular phrase of "back to normal" with me because
there was no normal with me.

I'd given her what y friends I called my "slit-eyed" look, intended to convey my dissatisfaction with her weak
attempt at humor.
Back in my hospital room, I lay down on the hard bed and surprisingly, fell asleep right away. When I awoke,
about an hour later, I was groggy and disoriented. I think the doctor had put me on some kind of muscle
relaxant -- I'd have to question Elise when she made her rounds that evening. I didn't want any drugs, especially
any that affected my mind. I'm something of a control freak, and I don't like anything that takes away my
control.

It was almost 5 p.m., which in a hospital means it's dinnertime. I think they have patients eat dinner early so
that the kitchen staff can go home at a decent hour.

I brushed my hair and put on a touch of lipstick, picked up my laptop and went out into the hall. Evidently Elise
had indicated on my chart that I was ambulatory because the duty nurses never questioned my walking around.

I was feeling at loose ends, and I wasn't expecting my parents to be back for another visit until later this
evening. Bless their hearts, they'd already been here once today to visit me, at lunchtime. I felt drawn back to
Dr. Talbot's room and decided to stop by again.

A nurse was standing by his bed, taking his blood pressure. I waited outside his room until the nurse was
finished. As she left room, she looked at me and said, "Hi, you can go in but he hasn't awakened." She shook
her head and gave a sad little smile.

I nodded and said "Thanks" and smiled back at her, then walked over to where Dr. Talbot lay, pale and
motionless.

For a moment, I felt tears well up in my eyes but I quickly blinked them away. How was I ever going to repay
this man for what he'd done for me? I looked down at him and said, "Hello, again. It's me -- Leslie Davis. I
thought I'd stop by to visit for a minute."

"I've brought my laptop with me this time. I thought I might get a little writing done in between times when
we're visiting."

I glanced around, looking for a chair. In one corner of the room was a high stool on wheels, probably used by
the doctors and nurses when they examined patients and when they entered data into the computer, also in the
corner.

I pulled the stool over to the side of the bed, cringing at the loud creaking noise it made. I perched myself on
the stool, arranged the laptop on my lap and sat there, trying to understand why I was there and what I was
going to do next.

As was my nature, I couldn't stay silent long when I was in the presence of another living soul, even if this one
was in a coma and couldn't hear me -- or at least I assumed he couldn't hear me. I'd read somewhere or seen on
TV that it was possible that coma patients were aware of what was going on around them and could hear and
understand what was being said to them.

"I'm trying to figure out what I can do to repay you for saving my life but of course there's nothing I can do. I
feel so bad about you being in a coma and me being able to walk around. You put yourself in danger by
shoving me out of the path of that car."

For a moment, my mind started to relive that awful experience, and I pushed it away. I hadn't let myself dwell
on the details, after the morning's questioning by a Rivermont police detective.

"The man and woman who were standing with us are all right -- they didn't even get a scratch," I reported. "The
paramedics insisted on bringing them to the hospital but they were released right away. I wish I could
remember their names -- I'd like to talk with them."
I paused then continued. "I suppose I could get their names from the police. They sent a detective to talk with
me this morning, to find out what happened. I don't know how much help I was. It all happened so fast and was
such a blue. I'm afraid all I could say was that a huge SUV drove straight towards the four of us as we stood on
the sidewalk outside your office building. If you hadn't shoved me out of the way, I don't know..." I stopped,
overwhelmed once again by the thought that I had come so close to death.

"Well, you just have to get better, to wake up, There has to be something I can do for you, to repay you for
what you did for me. And I was practically a stranger to you. I'd only come to that one grief workshop and I'm
not sure I even told you my whole name. I think I just said I was Leslie."

I stopped talking, feeling slightly foolish, and then thinking again that maybe talking to Dr. Talbot could
possibly help him and perhaps in some small way, that might help repay him for saving my life.

”I hope it's all right with you if I visit. I‟ll probably be here for another day or so. I have a very conservative
doctor. That may be because she's also become a friend of mine so she's overly concerned about me or maybe
she just enjoys bossing me around. I seem to bring that out in people because they know how I hate being told
what to do."

I stopped talking abruptly, dismayed at what I'd just revealed to this man that I'd only met once. What must he
think of me? Then I shook my head at myself. He wasn't conscious so he couldn't think anything of me.

Feeling ashamed at talking about myself as if he were interested, as if he could hear, I stood up, I looked down
at the laptop, and brushed my fingers lightly over the keyboard. I opened up Microsoft Word and started typing
into a blank document. I would write down what I remembered about that night, the night I almost got killed.

Soon I was in a zone and ended up with several pages of badly typed notes. I wondered how I could have so
completely forgotten where I was and who I was with. I guess it's my ability to concentrate so deeply.

I closed the top of the laptop and stood up. I moved the stool back to the corner where it belonged, and said,
"Well, Dr. Talbot, I'm off to track down my dinner. I heard the delivery carts out in the hall on my way here so
my dinner should be in my room."

I walked out of the room, then stuck my head back in to say, "If you don't mind, I might drop by this evening
after my parents visit. I'll bring my laptop again in case I get the urge to write."

That sounded stupid, too, I thought, as I went back to my room. I grimaced at my behavior. I'm not a stupid
person. In fact, I'm fairly bright. All through school, almost 20 years worth, I usually made the highest grades in
my classes. I wasn't impressed with myself or bragging or having a swelled head. I was born with brains and I
had nothing to do with that. It was my parents' genes, passed along to me. And because I believe in God or a
divine power or whatever you want to call it, that power probably had something to do with giving me
intelligence.

That same power also gave me an attractive face, a pleasant personality, a zest for life, good health, energy and
enthusiasm, all kinds of good things, for which I'm grateful every day.

So what can I claim for myself? What am I responsible for? What don't I attribute to a higher power? That's a
hard one. In one way, it all tracks back to that power. In another way, I've built a good successful life, I've
worked hard, cared a lot, achieved a lot.

Despite the tragedy that happened to me four years ago, I'm okay with my life, okay with myself. I'm not
married, nor do I have children, and those things may never happen for me. If they do, that would be wonderful.
If they don't, I can still have a good life.
My dinner was indeed waiting for me. I had ordered a Caesar salad with grilled chicken strips and a piece of
cheesecake for dessert and was pleased to see that they had pretty much delivered what I requested. Of course,
there were few things I hadn't ordered: a dish of broccoli, a glass of tomato juice, a dish of lime Jell-O and a
cardboard container of milk. They were evidently pushing antioxidants and calcium on patients, in addition to
the ubiquitous Jell-O, a hospital requirement I assumed. That was fine with me. I'm a bit of a vitamin freak. I
take about 20 vitamins a day and I actually swear by them, in a sensible, hopefully non-obsessive way.

As I was finishing my cheesecake, one of my more innocent obsessions, Mom and Dad came in my room.
There were hugs and kisses all around, and I honestly felt better than I'd felt all day. I love my parents and truly
enjoy being around them. They're delightfully interesting and they take command of any room they enter.

Mom is Katherine Davis and Dad is Jackson Davis. They're both lawyers and have an extremely successful
practice in downtown Rivermont, a Midwest city on the Mississippi River, close to St. Louis.

At 38 years of age, I've never been married, although I got close once -- more about that later.

I'm a writer -- of suspense. Since I was seven years old, I've written. I started out writing stories that I sold for a
quarter to anyone in the neighborhood who would buy them. I typed them on my grandmother's old Remington,
which she'd bought at a garage sale for $1.50. I then begged my Dad to take them to his law office to photocopy
them for me. I'm sure the photocopying was more expensive than the money I finagled out of neighbors and
relatives but at seven, my math skills were still under development.

Fast forward 30 years or so to the publication of my first suspense novel. It was actually the fifth book I'd
written but the first one that anyone was interested in.

To put bread on the table until I could support myself with my writing, I had worked with my Dad and Mom's
law firm. Yes, I'm a lawyer by education but not in my heart.

It was the only thing I could think of to do while I pursued my true passion of writing. I know that seems like a
lot of work for a temporary career but I'm an overachiever, just like my parents and my brother. So to us, it
made perfect sense for me to spend all those years getting my law degree and for them to spend hundreds of
thousands of dollars paying for that degree.

My brother Todd is the outlier of the family. He's a geologist and travels the world collecting rocks. Actually,
rock collecting is what led to his interest in geology. Our grandmother had given Todd an impressive rock
collection that she'd found at a garage sale for the unheard of cost of $10. Nothing ever cost that much at a
garage sale, or so said Grandma Belle. Anyway, that was enough to light a fire in Todd that still burned brightly
almost 30 years later.

I have the greatest family in the world -- normal, loving, interesting -- not a quirk or neurosis or psychosis
among us. Or so we all say. I don't delve in to that very much, for fear of what I would discover. I'm happy just
to accept the party line of our normalcy and perfection, with no questions asked.

Something about my writing -- I have a series protagonist -- Delilah -- who a family very similar to mine --
imagine that. However, Delilah has no compunctions about delving into the vagaries and dysfunctions of her
family, which leads to a lot of mystifying circumstances.

My family, of course, sees absolutely no similarities between them and Delilah's high-functioning dysfunctional
family. Even my brother Todd, the epitome of scientific perception, doesn't see that Delilah's brother the
archeologist shares all his characteristics. Hopefully, none of them will ever figure it out. Actually, Grandma
Belle saw through it right from the beginning but has thankfully kept her mouth shut.
Mom and Dad were full of worries about me and I did my best to reassure them that Elise was only keeping me
here as a precaution, that she was as conservative a doctor as they came, and that should not worry about me.
Of course, as I said those words, I knew that was a futile statement for me to make. They would worry about
me and I wouldn‟t want it any other way.

I was sitting on the bed, feet dangling over the side and Mom stood beside me, fingering the scratchy white
sheets. “Could I bring some softer sheets for you?” she asked.

“Mom, I‟ll be home tomorrow or the day after. I‟m not such a fragile flower that I need soft sheets.” But I
grinned at her, glad to know she still wanted to take care of her little girl.

Dad was sitting in on the big recliners in the room, his favorite kind of chair. “Todd and Beth will be here
shortly. They had to drop the twins off at school for some kind of recital.”

“Oh, they don‟t need to go out of their way to come visit. Watching the girls dance is more important than my
little bang-up. Can‟t you call them and tell them to stay with the girls?”

Dad grinned up at me, “Well, I don‟t think they‟ll mind too much missing the recital. I got the distinct
impression when Todd called that he preferred a hospital visit over 9-year-olds in tutus or whatever.”

The word tutu coming out of the mouth of my tall, craggy, so-masculine father, made me snort a laugh and Dad
grinned again, evidently having wanted exactly that reaction from me.

During this morning‟s visit, Dad had gently but firmly questioned me about what had happened the night
before. I knew I‟d probably undergo a similar interrogation from Todd when he arrived. But their questions
arose out of love and caring and I know I would have reacted the same way had our situations been reversed.

Todd and Beth peeked in the door and then came in. Todd saw that we were short a chair and went out in search
of one. He came back a few moments later, pushing another of the big recliners. He placed it next to the one
Dad sat in, and the two men in the family looked perfectly at home there in my hospital room. We three women
just smiled and shook our heads at the men. Mom and Beth sat in the two straight-backed chairs and I remained
sitting on the side of the bed.

Todd said, as I‟d known he would, “Okay, Sis, tell us all about your adventure, or should I say misadventure.”



Jeff
Once again I had spaced out into unawareness. As I slowly surfaced, I sensed rather than heard that someone
was in the room with me.

I waited for some sound, some indication of who it is was. As far as I could tell, the doctors and nurses
routinely greeted my by name when they entered the hospital room and announced themselves by name. It must
be one of those healthcare training things.

The first sound I heard from my mystery visitor was some faint sniffling. Then I heard an oh so familiar voice,
a voice I'd grown up hearing every day.

My Mom said, "Celia, dear, here's a tissue for those tears."

I waited to hear my daughter Celia's answer but heard only the sound her blowing her nose, followed by a soft
sob.
"Sweetie, I'm so sorry you have to go through this. It's not fair after all you've already been through."

"Oh, Gram, he looks so helpless lying there. My take-charge Dad would hate this."

"You have to believe that he's going to be okay. We have to have faith that God will take care of him."

"I'm trying, Gram, but it's really hard."

"I know, Celia. It's hard for me, too. Maybe in a few minutes we can go down to the chapel and say a prayer
and light a candle."

"I'd like that."

I was screaming inside in frustration at not being able to reach out to Celia, to reassure her, to tell her that I
would be okay, that I wouldn't die like her mother had. Good for Mom, she was taking the exact right approach
with Celia. I knew that Mom had enough faith to move mountains but I also knew that she was suffering over
this as much as Celia. I was her only child, and I knew she would do everything in her power to not lose me.
Somehow that made me feel better, more positive about this situation I was in the midst of.

Then I heard my Mom again.

"We probably should run home and shower and get some clean clothes if we plan to spend the night again."

Spend the night again? Had they been here last night? This was the first I'd realized that Mom and Celia were
here. I must have been spaced out more than I realized.

I hated to think of the uncomfortable sleeping arrangements they must have endured in order to be close to me.

I was determined to pull through this, whatever it was. I could not leave my daughter orphaned and my mother
bereft, which I knew she would be if she lost me. She and my wife Miriam had been as close as mother and
daughter and Miriam's death had tested Mom's faith as nothing else had.

Miriam was a true woman of God, a minister who walked in daily step with her faith. Her death had been a
tragedy in so many ways. Personally, because of the family she left behind, grieving for her. And publicly,
because of her position as a leading minister in the Rivermont religious community. Her death in the train
derailment had been senseless and useless, although as I thought those words for the thousandth time, I knew
that Miriam would have strenuously disagreed with me..

Miriam took the approach that there was no such thing as senseless or useless. She believed in God's plan. She
believed that she'd been set on a path by her Heavenly Father and throughout her life she had tried her best to
never deviate from that path.

My faith wasn't nearly as strong as hers. I strayed off the path frequently, more because of my counseling work
rather than any personal unbelief.

It's hard to believe in a divine plan and divine will when you're faced hourly with the random cruelty and
viciousness human beings impose on others. Considering the trauma and abuse I was exposed to through my
clients, it's a miracle that I didn't run screaming from any mention of religion. But Miriam had kept me on
target and even now, four years since her gentle hand had guided me, I maintained a modicum of faith. Not
much but enough to see me through. Mom and Celia mostly made up for my shortfalls in the faith department.

I heard footsteps and then a deep male voice that sounded peripherally familiar.
"Mrs. Talbot, hello again."

"Hello, Dr. Schumacher. How is my son doing"

I could hear rustling and movement and I assumed Mom had stood to shake hands wit Dr. Schumacher..

Schumacher, of course. He'd arrived last night while I was still in the ER. Evidently I'd had a serious head
injury and Schumacher was a renowned St. Louis neurologist who had been called in to take a look at me. He
must have been interested in what he saw if he was now referring to himself as my physician.

"He's still in a light coma. We haven't been able to identify a reason for the coma. There's head trauma but no
swelling that we can detect. I fully expected him to be regaining consciousness by now. This is very puzzling."

I didn't like the sound of that. Puzzling is definitely not a good diagnosis, nor is it a good prognosis.

I felt myself beginning to fade away once again, and it couldn't have happened at a more inopportune time. I
knew Mom would be quizzing Schumacher about my condition and would grill him about possible treatments
and my progress. I wanted to hear what he had to say. Actually, I was desperate to hear what he had to say. But
my mind went blank and then black.

So much for learning about my condition.

When I came back to the world of awareness, I had no idea how long I'd been away. It could have been a
minute or it could have been a year. There was silence in the room, no voices, no TV, nothing but the beep and
plink and swoosh of various machines. Lifesaving machines, I will grant them that.

From the all-pervading silence, I deduced that Mom was gone, Celia was gone and most importantly, Dr
Schumacher, the source of all medical knowledge as it pertained to one Jeff Talbot was gone also. Better luck
next time, I told myself, and hoped there would be a next time.


Leslie

I gave Todd a big grin at his demand to hear all about my adventure. Since childhood, Todd and I had been
swapping tall yarns. We tried to one-up one another but usually stayed even.

"Mom, Dad, you heard this tale this morning so if you want to bow out, I'll certainly understand."

Both of them said no, they would stay. Dad said, "I'd actually like to hear the story again. It just doesn't make
sense."

"Tell me about it!" I answered. "I've been trying to figure it out all day but haven't gotten anywhere."

I saw Todd's face light up at the idea of a potential mystery for him to solve. As a kid, one of Todd's favorite
board games was Clue, and he became quite the expert at solving crimes -- at least ones involving candlesticks,
libraries, Colonel Mustard and so forth,

"Okay, Sis, give us the facts, just the facts, ma'am."

I gave Todd my slit-eyed look of disdain at his wisecrack but as usual, it had no effect on him.

"Okay, you asked for it. Here are the facts, at least the ones I can remember."
I proceeded to narrate my activities of the night before and was surprised at what a captive audience I had. I
wished that they paid this much attention to me in normal times.

"Last night, well, last evening, actually -- at 6:30 I attended a... a workshop at Rivermont University." I didn't
want to tell my family that it was a grief workshop. They thought I was doing okay, that I'd recovered from my
loss. I suppose I should have felt I could confide in them, for I knew they loved me and wanted only the best for
me. But somehow I felt as though I was failing them by still grieving.

Fortunately, no one asked the obvious, at least to me, question -- what kind of workshop?

I quickly continued with the story, in order to forestall any questions I didn't feel ready to answer.

"After the workshop was finished, about 9:30 p.m., a group of us were standing in the parking lot outside the
building. Suddenly, an SUV came barreling toward us. The SUV didn't have any lights on, even though it was
dark outside. The parking lot was lit but not very brightly."

I was faintly surprised to realize that my heart was pounding as I recounted last night's events. I took a deep
breath and then another, to calm myself.

"It all happened so fast that I don't think any of us realized what was going on until the last moment. I was
standing next to Dr. Talbot -- he's the professor who was leading the workshop. There was an older couple
standing facing us. Dr. Talbot reacted instinctively I suppose, faster than the rest of us. He shoved me forward,
towards the husband and wife, managing to get the three of us out of the path of the SUV, but at a great cost to
himself. The SUV knocked him off his feet, and he landed head first on the parking lot."

I paused in my recounting of the previous night's events, thinking about the comatose man lying in a room
down the hall in the intensive care area. I debated for a moment about telling my family that I'd been to visit
him twice, then questioned myself for why I wouldn't tell them.

Plunging ahead with my narrative, I said, "I went to visit Dr. Talbot today, twice in fact. He's in a light coma
and they have no idea when he'll come out of it." I noticed that I'd used the word when and not if in referring to
when he would awaken.

"They let you visit him? I'm surprised at that," my Dad said.

"I think my doctor arranged it. I asked her about it this morning and she said she'd take care of it. And no one
ever tried to stop me or questioned my right to be there. I just felt I had to thank him for saving my life.
Although I guess he didn't know what I was saying to him because of the coma."

My Mom chimed in with, "You know, I've read about theories that coma patients can actually hear and
understand what's going on while they're unconscious."

I nodded and said, "I've read or heard the same things, Mom. So I've decided I'll visit Dr. Talbot for as long as
I'm here. I owe him so much and there's no way that I can ever repay him.

Then Todd, the ever-curious one, asked the question I was hoping no one would ask.

"Hey. Sis, what was this workshop thing you went to?"

It was on the tip of my tongue to respond honestly but at the last moment I substituted an evasion for the real
answer.

"Oh, you know, it' one of those touchy-feely things I'm always doing."
That was sufficient to shut him up and have him head in another direction. Todd hated anything he considered
touchy-feely or whoo-whoo as he called it. I saw Beth grinning at me and realized she knew exactly what I had
done to Todd. It made me feel good about her, as usual. I loved her like a sister and was so grateful my brother
had found her.

"Hmm," Todd murmured, obviously searching for another topic. Beth came to his rescue.

"So, Leslie, when do think you'll be able to go home?"

"That's the million dollar question in my mind," I said to the room at large. Elise is coming by again tonight
after her hospital rounds, and I intend to get an answer to that question."

My Dad said, "I don't envy Elise. You can be a real pit bull when you want an answer to something." Elise was
the daughter of friends of Mom and Dad. Elise's parents were both surgeons, and she said she chose to be a
general practitioner to avoid the drama that came with being a surgeon.

Dad spoke up. "What about the older couple you mentioned? Have you talked with them about what
happened?"

"No, I haven't talked with them. I don't think they were admitted to the hospital -- they didn't have any injuries.
But I have a contact sheet from the workshop that lists their names and phone numbers, and I plan to follow up
with them. Everything happened so fast that I can't trust my memories. It's sort of a jumble. I talked with a
Rivermont detective this morning and told him what I could remember.'

Dad was quiet for a moment, then said slowly, "Why don't you give me the name and phone number of this
couple and let me follow up with them? The more I think about it, the more I don't like the sound of this."

I told him, "Oh, Dad, that's not necessary. I can do it." But part of me felt a sense of relief at his offer, and I
secretly hoped he would push his request. Which of course he did.

"Sweetie, let me take this off your hands. You have enough to contend with."

I thought about protesting but decided that would be too phony. "Thanks, Dad, I appreciate it. The contact sheet
is in my briefcase, over there in the corner." I nodded in the direction of the briefcase.

Dad got up and brought the briefcase back to the recliner where he'd been sitting. He snapped it open and
started ruffling through the contents. I had a moment of panic that he'd find something embarrassing in there.
Then in dismay, I realized he'd see the handouts from the workshop and see that it was a grief workshop. But all
he did was retrieve the single sheet of paper that listed the names of the attendees. He closed the briefcase and
set it down on the floor next to the recliner, then stood up and came to stand by the bed.

He held the sheet out to me and asked, "Which ones are the couple you were standing with?"

I looked down the list until I found the names. "Daniel and Georgia Crane."

Dad took out a pen, took the paper back from me and made a mark next to their names.

"I'll give them a call tomorrow and let you know what I find out."

I reached out and patted him on the arm. "Thanks, Dad. You're a peach." He grinned at this description, then
leaned down to kiss me on the forehead.
He looked around at Mom and Todd and Beth, and made a motion toward the door. "Okay, guys, it's time for us
to skedaddle and let this girl relax and get some rest."

I protested. "Oh, please don't go. Stay awhile longer. I'm not tired, really."

But when Dad gets an idea in his head there's no getting rid of it. I guess I get my pit bull attributes from him.
Ten minutes later I was once again alone in the hospital room and not very happy about that. I had really
wanted them to stay. Today I'd found that when I was alone, my thoughts would begin to race and my heart
would pound. I think I was suffering some kind of post-traumatic emotional stress and being alone seemed to
exacerbate it.

The clock on the wall said it was just past 8 p.m., and that signaled the end of visiting hours.

I was expecting Elise to stop by but it was getting rather late for that. Mom had brought me a new robe, a soft
fleecy blue thing and I put it on and went to the mirror to look at myself. The robe was becoming -- Mom had
good taste and seemed to know what would look good on me. I brushed my hair, and put on lip-gloss and
eyeliner, my two standbys.

Without even consciously thinking about it or admitting to myself, I was going to visit Dr. Talbot again. I
hoped it wasn't becoming an obsessive thing with me. This would be my third visit today. Even though I'd said
I'd be bringing my laptop, I didn't bother with it.

The hall lights had been dimmed for the night but an intermittent spattering of small lights were positioned
halfway up the walls. They gave off enough light for me to easily see my way back to Dr. Talbot's room. His
door was shut, and I hesitated before opening it. The other two times I'd visited the door had been standing
open.

I tentatively turned the knob, ready to beat a hasty retreat if someone was in the room visiting Dr. Talbot. But
as I peeked in around the door, I saw that it was just him, lying motionless in his bed. The lights had been
dimmed in his room also, and from where I stood by the door I could barely make out his features. But I could
tell that his eyes were still closed so I assumed he hadn't awakened from his coma.

I tiptoed into the room and across the space separating his bed from the door. I stood silently at the bedside,
looking down at him. I saw a nice looking man, who was probably somewhere in his mid-forties, although I'm
not a good judge of ages.

I whispered, "Hi, Dr. Talbot, it's me again, Leslie Davis. I just came by for a moment to see how you're doing
and to tell you good night." His slow, steady breathing was the only response I received. I once again felt a
pang of dismay at his condition. I was standing here because of him. If he hadn't pushed me out of harm's way,
I could be the one lying here comatose or worse.

I heard a faint whisper of a noise behind me and turned to see what it was. My doctor, Elise Carpentier, was
standing in the doorway motioning to me. I whispered "Good night" in Dr. Talbot's direction, then walked out
of the room.

Elise was standing right outside the door, waiting for me. She gave me a wide smile and said, "So how are you
feeling?" She didn't wait for a reply but continued on. "When I didn't find you in your room, I inquired at the
nurses' station as to your whereabouts. They seemed to think you might be visiting a patient in the intensive
care area and here you are, just as I expected"

"Yes, here I am." I grinned at her. "You're certainly a full-service doctor, visiting patients this late at night."
"I told you I'd see you this evening. Actually, I knew I'd be having dinner with my parents tonight and the
hospital is on my way home. Come, let's go back to your room so I can take a look at you."

We walked back to my room in silence. I was having the oddest debate inside my head. Part of me wanted
desperately to go home as soon as possible. Another part wanted to stay a little longer, so that I could keep
watch over Dr. Talbot. Because that's what it felt like I was doing -- keeping watch over him. Somehow I felt
responsible for his we
ll-being, for his recovery. I knew Elise was going to tell me when I could go home and I wasn't sure I wanted
that to be soon.

Back in my hospital room, Elise closed the door behind us and turned on the bright overhead lights. She had me
lie down on the bed while she performed her examination.

When she was finished, she turned off the bright lights and sat down in one of the chairs my family had pulled
up next to the bed. I raised the head of the bed, so that I was in a sitting position.

"Well?" I asked impatiently.

"Well.." Elise responded with a grin.

I gave her my slit-eyed look and she grinned ever wider.

"That look doesn't have any affect on me, young lady." She said this as if she were years older than me, when
really she was only three years my senior.

"Okay, I'll be serious," she said rather grudgingly. "Sometimes you take all the fun out of my job. You're doing
well, actually better than I had expected. I don't expect any residual effects from the concussion and the tests
you've been through have ruled out any more serious repercussions from the head trauma. However, your blood
pressure is high and your white blood cell count is elevated so I'd like to keep you under observation for
another day or so."

I was shocked at how happy this extension of my hospital stay made me feel. And I knew that happiness was
because I now could continue, at least for a short while, my vigil over Dr. Talbot.

"I know how disappointed you must feel to not be going home and I know your family will feel the same way.
But I just want to be on the safe side here." Elise stood up. "Well, I have to be on my way. And it's time for you
to turn in for the night. I won't see you on morning rounds but I'll pop in again on evening rounds."

I was glad that she hadn't seen that indeed I wasn't disappointed but happy that I'd be staying here a little longer.

Elise patted me on the arm, said goodnight and was out the door. I sat there in the bed, thinking about what had
just happened. Anyone else, any normal person, I snorted to myself, would be dying to get out of here. Instead I
was dying to stay here, at least until Dr. Talbot was okay.

Jeff

I had the feeling that someone was in the room even before I heard her voice.

She said, "Hi, Dr. Talbot, it's me again, Leslie Davis. I just came by for a moment to see how you're doing and
to tell you good night."

And that was all she except, except for a whispered good night.
I wondered what had taken her away. I wondered why she came for such a brief visit. I wished that my Mom or
daughter had been in the room so that I could find out more about this woman who was visiting me.

My dear Mom would have grilled her within an inch of her life. All very politely and kindly of course, but
Mom had a way of digging into people to discover their secrets. It was an interesting process to watch when
you weren't the one who was being dug into.

Speaking of Mom, I wondered where she and Celia were. They'd been in earlier in the evening, and had then
headed down to the cafeteria for dinner. It sounded as though they were once again going to spend the night in
the hospital, probably in the waiting room down the hall.

I worried so much about Celia. For her sake especially, I was trying my hardest to wake up from whatever state
I was in. Celia is a gem of a girl and putting this trauma on top of her after what she went through when Miriam
died just wasn't fair.

I slipped away somewhere for a moment, which seemed o happen to me with maddening regularity. When I
came back to myself, I heard a male voice speaking loudly.

"Now, Jeff, it's Dr. Davenport here again. It's time for you to wake up. We've been unable to find any reason for
your coma. You should be awake and alert and getting ready to go home. And instead you're lying here
unconscious."

Who was this man, I thought? Whoever he was, his bedside manner totally sucked.

I heard another voice and recognized my Mom.

"Well, Dr. Davenport, how is my son doing?" Her voice sounded odd, lacking its usual warm and welcoming
tone.

"Ah, Mrs. Talbot, how are you this evening?"

I didn't hear any response from my Mom so I imagined she must have shot the doc one of her withering looks.

"Your son in still in a light coma. And as we discussed this morning, there's no physical reason that we can
identify for the coma. He should be awake,"

"And yet here he lies, still in a coma." My Mom's voice was clipped and abrupt and held no warmth. Go for it,
Mom, I thought.

."Yes, ma'am," came the doctor's voice, low and respectful. "The good news is that it's a light coma. And he
should come out of it at any moment."

"Dr. Davenport, with all due respect, I'm not happy with what's going on with my son. I think it may be time for
us to get a second opinion." Mom's tone was brisk and firm. So much for Dr. Davenport, I thought.

"Now, Mrs. Talbot, there's no need for that. Your son is getting the best possible care, from me, the nurses, the
residents, from all of us here at Memorial."

Ahhh, so that's where I am. Memorial. It's the teaching hospital affiliated with Rivermont University. Memorial
is a place of many memories for our family, some good, some not so good. This is where Celia was born. This
is where Miriam had two miscarriages. Memorial is where they brought my Dad after his heart attack. Bless his
heart, he hung on for almost two weeks here before surrendering to the massive coronary damage his heart
suffered. If I had to be in the hospital, which God knows I didn't want, Memorial was the best Rivermont had to
offer. An hour away in St. Louis were world-class hospitals with global recognition but I'd stake my life on
Memorial, which actually was what I was doing at the moment.

I'd gotten sidetracked in my thoughts and had unfortunately missed part of the sparring between Mom and Dr.
Davenport. My money was on Mom. I picked up their conversation and learned that they had progressed past
the possibility of a second opinion to Mom's insistence that tomorrow she would contact the head of the
Rivermont medical school for a recommendation of another physician.

I wondered what Mom had detected or noticed about Dr. Davenport. I trusted her judgment and knew this
wasn't some whim on her part. If she distrusted him or his medical expertise, it was with good reason. Mom
might have spent her working years as a high school secretary but I would match her up with any captain of
industry. She was knowledgeable and well-read. She could form her own valid opinions and I'd learned to value
her insights.
I heard Mom say, "Let's take this discussion out in the hall, please, doctor. I don't want Jeff hearing what we're
saying.'

"But, ma'am," protested Dr. Davenport. "The patient is in a coma and can't hear or understand what we're
saying."

"First of all, it's not 'the patient,' it's my son Jeff. And secondly, you know there have been studies showing that
often coma patients are aware of what's going on around them. So I refuse to take any chances. I don't want Jeff
worrying about his treatment or his prognosis. I want him to concentrate on getting better and waking up. Now,
if you'll follow me..."

Mom's voice trailed off and I would have bet a million dollars that she had paraded out of the room, followed
by a chastened Dr, Davenport. Way to go, Mom!

As their footsteps faded away, I heard other footsteps coming toward the bed, then heard the soft voice of my
daughter Celia.

"Hi, Daddy, it's me, Cele. How're you doing tonight. You look like you're ready to wake up any minute. I hope
it's soon. I miss you so much and I have a jillion things to tell you about."

I felt my heart begin to ache at her words. I strained in every way I could think of to wake up for my little girl
but nothing happened.

I replayed the words I'd just used -- my little girl. Celia was 14 and no longer a little girl. She was fast
becoming a young woman. In her mind, she was already an adult. She'd left her childhood behind four years
ago when her mother died. Celia really stepped up then. She grieved, but in her own quiet way. She tried to
support me, to take care of me, at a time when I should have been doing those things for her, if I'd been able to.
The loss of Miriam had crushed me. I went through the motions of living but to anyone who knew me they
would have recognized my detachment, my avoidance of the truth, my unwillingness to acknowledge the
tragedy visited upon our family.

Celia and my Mom had formed a support group that managed to keep me minimally functioning. After a
month's leave, I went back to my life -- I taught my classes at the university, I met with my patients and
hopefully didn't do them any harm. But I'm sure I did them no good.

I thought I could feel Celia holding my hand but that may have been wishful thinking, wishful wanting to feel
something. I could picture her standing there, beside the bed, a tall girl, tall for her age, with long blond hair she
normally wore high atop her head in a glorious pony tail. Celia was beautiful, inside and outside. She looked
like Miriam, so much so that it caused an ache in my heart. In addition to her beautiful exterior and her good
soul, she was brilliant.
Celia had skipped two grades in school and was now a junior in high school even though she was only 14.

Miriam and I had struggled over the decision to let her skip grades. The first time came after she finished
kindergarten. The first grade teacher and the principal met with us to discuss the pros and cons of having Celia
bypass first grade and move right in to second grade.

We let Celia make the decision. It was, after all, her life. The move seemed to work out well. Celia was tall for
her age and more mature than most of the other children her age so she fit in well with her older classmates. For
the rest of grade school, she excelled in her studies and was put in advanced classes.

The next skipped grade came when she was slated to enter 7th grade in the neighborhood middle school. Once
again, we met with the principal. But this time joining us was the middle school principal plus the eighth grade
principal. Their advice was to go for it.

The grade school principal, Mr. Demarest, said, "Mr. and Mrs. Talbot, Celia is an amazingly mature and well-
balanced 12-year-old. Once again, we decided to defer to Celia for the decision, and she was again fine with it.
She trusted the expertise of the school officials, and so did Miriam and I.

Celia's area of interest and concentration was science. She loved biology and chemistry but her absolute
favorite was physics. Miriam and I were pretty much astounded at that. Neither of us had done well in physics
in high school, I got a C- and Miriam got a C and never let me forget her superior grade.

Celia hadn't settled on a college or a career path. She was still looking around and thinking about what she
wanted to do with her life. Mom and I tried to stay cool about it and even though we'd never openly discussed
it, we both knew how much we wanted Celia to choose Rivermont University and stay here close to us.

I sensed that Celia was leaning down towards me and I assumed she had kissed me good night, although I
couldn't feel anything.

I heard a faint, whispered "Good night," reminiscent of what Leslie Davis had said earlier. And then the fading
sound of footsteps and a softly closed door told me my daughter had left the room.

Leslie

I lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep no matter what I did. I was tempted to ring for the night
nurse on duty and ask if my doctor had prescribed any kind of sedative if I should need. But that felt like
wimping out. I could take care of this. If my body wasn't ready to sleep, which it probably wasn't because I'd
enjoyed -- and enjoyed was the operative word -- two long naps today.

I climbed out of bed and put on the new fluffy robe Mom had brought and slipped into the matching bedroom
slippers.

I picked up my laptop, a spiral notebook and the mystery novel Mom had also brought for me, the new Ridley
Pearson. Ridley lived in St. Louis and I'd met him a couple of times. Like me, he did readings at the County
Library and at various bookstores when he released a new book. We'd once sat together on a panel at a mystery
writers' workshop held in a St. Louis suburb, and I‟d found him down-to-earth and amusing.

I wandered down the hall and noticed a teenaged girl leaving Dr. Talbot's room. She was tall and slender and
her long blond hair was atop her head in a cascade of a ponytail. I smiled at her and kept walking toward the
waiting room at the end of the hall. Just before I reached the waiting room, I noticed an older woman and a
middle-aged man in a white doctor's coat, off in an alcove, involved in a heated conversation. I wondered what
that was all about. I headed to the far side of the waiting room and sat down on one of the long couches. I
spread my stuff around me and debated what I wanted to do. I didn't feel like writing or making notes, so I
ignored the laptop and the notebook and concentrated on the mystery. The room was almost deserted and
someone had blessedly muted the always-on and usually-blaring TV. CNN news updates flickered across the
screen and there was a news crawl at the bottom but I mostly ignored it.

I curled my feet up under me, wedged a pillow behind me, and settled back to see if I could solve Ridley‟s
mystery before he did. After a few minutes, I heard some low voices and rustling noises in one corner of the
waiting room. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the activity, Ridley temporarily abandoned. It was the girl
who‟d come out of Dr. Talbot‟s room and the woman I'd seen arguing with the doctor in the hallway earlier.

The woman and girl were spreading out blankets and plumping up pillows on two adjoining couches, evidently
preparing to spend the night. I assumed the girl was Dr. Talbot‟s daughter and the older woman was most likely
his mother.

I knew from what he'd shared with the group at the grief workshop that he was a widower, having lost his wife
four years ago. He hadn‟t provided any details but I got a couple of impressions from him. One, that his wife‟s
death had been a traumatic one, and two, that as the grief workshops continued, he would talk more about his
wife and what her loss had done to his life.

I liked the looks of these two. I was glad Dr. Talbot had them in his life. They settled down on the couches,
pulling their respective blankets up around them. The mom reached over and turned out the table lamp and their
corner was darkened. I debated whether to stay or go and decided I‟d head back to my room. I might be able to
sleep now. I gathered up my belongings and began to leave the room when the mom sat up and spoke to me. “I
hope we‟re not chasing you away. Trust me, you won‟t keep us awake, no matter what you do. I think we‟re
both totally beat.”


I stopped by where they lay, and gave them a big smile, which they probably couldn‟t see because their corner
of the room was so dark.

“No, you‟re not chasing me away. I came down here to read for awhile because I couldn‟t sleep but I think I
might be able to now.”

“You‟re a patient here?” the mom asked.

“Yes, since yesterday. I‟ll probably being going home in a couple of days.” I smiled and once again started to
leave but decided I needed to tell her who I was and what her son had done for me.

“My name is Leslie Davis, and I need to tell you that Dr. Talbot saved my life last night. I think you‟re his
mother?”

The woman looked at me in surprise, then said, "I didn‟t know Jeff saved anyone‟s life. All we knew was that
Jeff had been run down by a large SUV, which subsequently fled the scene.”

She sat up and cleared a space for me on the couch next to her. “Can you please sit down with us for a
moment?” she asked.

I sat down in the space she indicated.

“I‟m Martha Talbot, Jeff‟s mother, and this is Celia, Jeff‟s daughter and my precious granddaughter.” Celia
rolled her eyes at that and Martha laughed and patted her on the arm. "I say things like that just to get that eye-
rolling reaction."
Once again Celia gave her grandmother a roll of her eyes, then turned toward Leslie and asked, "Are you by
any chance Leslie Davis the mystery writer?"

I felt my cheeks flush but then smiled at the girl and said, "Yes, that's me."

Celia smiled back at me and said, "I only asked because Gram and I read your books. In fact, we buy two hard
cover copies as soon as they're available. We love your books."

My face flushed even more, and Mrs. Talbot said, "We don't mean to embarrass you but we're great fans."

"Oh, that's all right," I answered, trying not to blush anymore than I already was. ”So far I've not become
accustomed to people knowing who I am and reading my books. Actually, it's wonderful but like I said I'm still
working on getting used to it."

Mrs. Talbot nodded and said, "That must be difficult."

"Well," I answered, "but for a writer it's a good kind of problem to have."

I shifted my laptop and notebook and book in my arms and said ruefully, "I'm going to drop something here if I
don't get back to my room. Good night to you both. Maybe I'll see you again tomorrow,, and we can talk some
more. You can't imagine how grateful I am to your son for what he did."

Celia and Martha said their good nights and I went back to my room, suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. I
couldn't wait to get into bed, even the hard, uncomfortable hospital bed.

Once in bed, I fell asleep immediately. Awhile later, I awoke in a panic. I didn't know where I was or when it
was. I lay there, rigid, my heart pounding, sweating under the covers. I'd had a nightmare, so frightening, that it
awoke me. The details were fading fast, as they do when we awaken from a dream. I clicked on the bedside
light and reached for my notebook to make notes about the nightmare.

I still felt this pervading terror, and tried to remember exactly what it was that caused the terror. I think I was
reliving the accident the night before, when I'd almost been run down by a huge looming vehicle. My
overactive imagination had added a few embellishments to my memories. It was now a dark and stormy night
with a torrential downpour, jagged flashes of lightning streaking across sky, and crashing booms of thunder. I'm
not fond of thunderstorms and so their presence in my nightmare made it even more frightening.

I sat there scribbling in the dim light, writing down all that I could remember. When I'd finished, I put the
notebook aside and poured myself a glass of water from the carafe on the bedside table. The water was
lukewarm but my mouth was so dry I didn't mind. I got out of bed and used the bathroom, leaving the light on
there. I also left the bedside light lit. No way was I going to plunge the room and myself back into inky
darkness. It took me a long while to fall back asleep, and once again I was tempted to call the nurse and request
a sedative. But I resisted the urge, not wanting the pill-induced lethargy that would await me when I awoke in
the morning.

Jeff

The next morning Celia came to sit with me. Mom had been in earlier but had said she was going to make
arrangements for the second opinion.

I liked the way Mom and Celia talked to me as if I could hear and understand them, the same as Leslie Davis
did.
Celia told me that she and Mom had met Leslie Davis in the waiting room last night. “Did you know that she‟s
one of our favorite mystery writers? Gram and I always read her new books right away. She‟s really nice but
she told us the strangest story. She said you saved her life – that you pushed her out of the way of the SUV that
ran you down. Gram and I didn‟t know that‟s what happened. You‟re a hero, Daddy! I wish someone had told
us about that.”

She was quiet for a few moments then said she was going to read to me. “It‟s one of Leslie Davis‟ books. Gram
had it in her carryall. She said it was one of her favorites and she planned to re-read it. So I thought you might
be interested in having me read it to you.”

I could hear her give a faint sigh and then the rustling of pages turning.

“Before I start reading, Daddy, I just want to tell you how proud I am of you. You‟re such a great person and I
know I‟ve never told you that and I‟m sorry I didn‟t. I want you to know how much I love you and how much
you mean to me. It‟s been hard for both of us without Mom but having you as my Dad has made it easier and I
hope you realize how much I appreciate that.”

Again, a brief silence, then Celia cleared her throat and began to read. She read for awhile, her voice full of
expression and interest. The book was a mystery and it caught my attention right away. I hadn‟t know Leslie
Davis was a writer and I wanted to see what she could do. I enjoyed the story and got caught up in the action.

I was sorry when Celia stopped reading. Evidently someone else had come in to the room. Celia said, “Well,
good morning.”

A voice from across the room said, “Good morning to you also.”

“You‟ll never guess what I‟m reading to Dad – it‟s Gram‟s favorite of your books.”

“Which one?” I heard Leslie ask and now her voice was closer.

“Death at Fall River.”

“Ahhh,” Leslie said. “Actually, that‟s one of my favorites also. I know writers aren‟t supposed to play favorites
among their books and their characters but we do, you know. Death at Fall River will always hold a special
place in my heart. It was my first book to be published. It was the fifth book I‟d written but the first one that
anyone was interested in publishing.”

Celia said, “Would you read for a little while? It‟s okay if you don‟t want to but my voice is getting a little
tired.”

“I‟d be delighted,” Leslie said. “You must agree with my theory that coma patients might be able to hear people
talking to them. I really believe that and I think reading to your Dad is an excellent idea.”

I wanted so badly to wake up, to thank them for believing that I was still in here somewhere. I wanted to thank
Celia for being the best daughter in the world. And I realized that I wanted to get to know this Leslie Davis
better. For the first time since Miriam‟s death, I found myself thinking of another woman.

I listened intently as Leslie read, liking the sound of her voice and the expression she gave to her characters‟
words.

I‟m not a fan of mystery novels – most of my reading is in psychology – journal articles, white papers by other
professionals, the occasional best-seller self-help book. But I found myself engaged in Leslie‟s words, her
story. I could see why Mom liked this book so much. It was very down-to-earth, not pretentious or phony at all.
The story was realistic, not like some of the far-fetched plots I‟d heard about although had not read. The
characters were believable and enjoyable. Even the villain had some redeeming qualities.

It goes without saying that I was disappointed when Leslie stopped reading and she and Celia left the room, in
search of food and most importantly, drink for their dry throats, in the hospital cafeteria, they said.

Leslie

After Celia, Mrs. Talbot and I had lunch in the hospital cafeteria, I went back to my room to rest. I couldn‟t
figure out why I was so tired all the time. The next time I saw Elise I‟d mention it to her. This bone-crunching
fatigue wasn‟t normal at all for me. Usually, I‟m my own special version of the Energizer Bunny, on the go and
never stopping from dawn to dusk.

I got into bed but then couldn‟t nap. My body was tired but my mind had slipped into overactive mode. The
Talbots were a fascinating family. I was totally curious about what had happened to Dr. Talbot‟s wife, so much
so that I decided to Google the Talbots to see what I could find out. I felt guilty about doing it. I had my own
code of ethics that caused me to avoid Googling people out of idle curiosity. But I convinced myself that this
wan in no way idle curiosity. I had almost lost my life and I wanted to know more about the man who had
saved my life. I‟m very good at rationalization.

I lay there wide awake, thinking about the mystery I was currently writing, titled "Murder at the Reunion." My
20th high school reunion was coming up later this year, and I got an idea about a murder that takes place at a
reunion. I was just starting to write but I had the feeling that I was going to really enjoy writing this one.
Sometimes one book will resonate more with me than another.

I thought since I couldn't sleep, I might make a few notes about the book. I had my characters in mind, and I
knew there would be a murder but I didn't know yet who the victim was or who the murderer was. I would
figure that out as I got to know the characters better. I know some writers have every detail planned out in
advance but that's not the way I work. I start with a general idea and then think and plan my way through it,
sometimes writing as I go. I was toying with the idea of having one of the characters be a former rock and roll
star who'd disappeared from the world of celebrity. I could have him (or her) be some kind of recluse who'd left
the fame and fortune behind, without a backward look.

I plugged in my laptop into the wall outlet because I was afraid the battery was getting low. The hospital had a
wireless Internet connection available throughout the building so my laptop immediately connected to the Web.

Instead of making notes on my book, I decided to go to YouTube and watch and listen to some of the Michael
Jackson videos. I searched on "You Are Not Alone," one of my favorites. I turned the volume low on the laptop
speakers, not wanting to disturb other patients. He had died two weeks ago, and the world was still mourning
his death. I had watched the live television coverage of the memorial service at Staples Center in Los Angeles.
It was awe-inspiring to see so much talent in one location. The music was beautiful and the tributes were
heartfelt and moving. When his daughter Paris spoke and then sobbed her love for the best father in the world,
there was not a dry eye in the place, including mine.

I'm an avid music fan, and Michael Jackson had always been one of my favorites. I ignored the negative
publicity about him and just enjoyed his music. He was an artist and I concentrated on his art. At one point in
my youth, I decided I would be a rock star. I have a passable voice and I can play the piano and the guitar. I
hooked up with some like-minded friends in high school and for awhile, I was part of a group called the
Riverdogs. We got some bookings, including our senior prom, which was quite a conflict for the girls in the
group. The guys could've cared less. They were happy to be earning money rather than being forced to shell out
dough for corsages and dinner and limos.
The three girls in the group came up with what we thought was the perfect solution. We would trade off, with
one of us at a time being a girl at a prom, dancing with her beau. The four guys in the group were not happy
with our plans but didn't want to risk a full-scale revolt from us.

I got to take the first shift as prom-goer. My date, Jimmy Patrick, had agreed reluctantly to this arrangement. I
couldn't blame him for being unhappy. He would be spending most of the evening alone.

Eventually, it all worked itself out and we managed to have the best of both worlds – our band‟s gig and our
night at the prom. I even used this in one of my mysteries so I got my money‟s worth.

One of the guys in the band, Roger Grissom, had gone on to become a fiction writer also. In fact, he had his
first book published a year before I did. He had moved to Oregon after graduation, and the rest of us in the band
had lost touch with him. Imagine my surprise when one Sunday morning, I opened the Rivermont Times book
section to see a review of his first novel. The review, written by one of the local Rivermont writers, had been
noncommittal. The reviewer had detailed the plot of the book, highlighted the local connection, gave some
background on what Roger had done since leaving Rivermont and then had left it at that.

I was puzzled by the review. Where was the critique? Where was the analysis? I didn‟t know the reviewer
personally but had read enough of her reviews to know that she usually provided an in-depth examination of
any book she wrote about.

I wondered if there was some pressure behind the review. Had the reviewer been coerced into doing a bland
review because the author was a local guy?

I had placed an order with Amazon for the book, anxious to see what Roger had created. But for some reason,
Amazon was unable to fill the order, putting it on backorder. On a hunch, I‟d checked the library catalog and
found it there. I put it on request – to my surprise I was number 86 on the list of requests so evidently a lot of
local folks were interested in reading Roger‟s book and perhaps they were also unable to buy it.

A couple of months later, it had finally been my turn to check the book out of the library. I had plunged in
eagerly one Friday night, planning to finish it over the weekend. But after an hour of eager reading, I had put
the book aside and sat there thinking about it. The characters were one-dimensional cardboard cut-outs. The
plot was farfetched. How had Roger gotten this thing published?

Because I always have to know how things end up, I turned to the last few pages of the book to see what
happened. And it was worse than I thought. The ending was unbelievable and forced. I was so glad that I hadn‟t
spent even 5 cents on the book. Unwilling to keep the book in my possession one minute more, I‟d driven to the
library, tossed the book in the night drop, and then stopped at Doozle‟s, just minutes before they closed at
midnight, for a hot fudge sundae.

As I sat there in the now-dark Doozle‟s parking lot, I thought about my reaction. Had there been a touch of
envy because I hadn‟t sold any of my work yet? Probably. But it was an awful book, nonetheless.

Now, sitting in the Rivermont Memorial Hospital room, I shook my head at my youthful self, and turned off the
Michael Jackson YouTube video when I felt the tears begin to trickle down my face.

Then still not making notes on the book, I decided to do a search on Dr. Talbot. I'd restrained myself from
doing this, but for some reason, now I could no longer resist finding out more about him. When I typed in
Jeffrey Talbot into the Google search box, I was amazed at the number of hits I got – in the millions.

I scrolled down the list of links and found one that immediately caught my attention. It was a news headline
from four years ago: “Area Minister Killed in Tragic Train Derailment.” My heart started to pound as I realized
what this meant. I clicked on the link and leaned back, realizing I‟d been hunched in over my laptop, to read the
article that popped up on the screen.

Jeff

I wondered if I was ever going to come out of this coma that I was in. Hopefully, Mom would strong-arm her
way into getting a second opinion from another, more competent doctor. Mom certainly didn't have much
respect for Davenport and I have to say I agree with her judgment.

I felt so helpless. The only other time I'd felt this out of control and unable to manage my life was when Miriam
died four years ago. She'd been on her way by train to a ministerial convention in Kansas City. A group of
ministers from the Rivermont area had decided to take a leisurely train trip to the convention rather than flying.
Little did anyone know what a tragic decision that would turn out to be.

Miriam and I had been married for almost 20 years. She was as much a part of me as one of my arms or legs.
After she died, I felt as though my arm had been ripped from my body. A part of me thinks that if it weren't
Celia, I wouldn't have wanted to go on without Miriam. I've never told that to anyone and I never will. I suspect
that Mom had an inkling of my despair but we never talked about. She had gone through her own passage of
grief when Dad died so I'm sure she could understand what I was experiencing. Sometimes I think Celia
handled the loss of her mother far better than I handled the loss of my wife.

I don't suppose I had realized how close Miriam and I were. I guess I took our good marriage for granted, not
deliberately, but just unknowingly. It's been four years now and I'm handling the grief. Initiating the series of
grief workshop had been a signal to myself that I was ready to let go of the grief and get on with life.

Leslie

Before the article on the train wreck came up on the laptop screen, I heard a knock on the door to my hospital
room. I looked up from the laptop and said come in, expecting to see Elise or the nurse. But a stranger stood in
the doorway, looking around the room.

"Yes?" I said, my voice soft and questioning.

"Ms. Davis? Ms Leslie Davis?"

"Yes, I'm Leslie Davis. Who are you?" The man standing in the doorway wore blue scrubs and a matching
surgical mask over the lower half of his face. A blue surgical cap covered his hair and on his feet were bright
yellow surgical booties. It was an odd-looking get-up, especially here, I thought on a non-surgical floor.

I couldn't imagine who this was or what he was doing here. A minute passed, and then another, and still he
didn't answer my question about who he was. He was tall and broad-shouldered and filled the doorway. I didn't
think I'd ever seen him before but it was difficult to tell because of the mask and cap.

As I stared at him, he stared silently back at me. I was feeling strangely threatened. I reached over to pick up
the call box from the bedside table. I pressed the call button and a moment later, a voice said, "Yes?"

"This is Leslie Davis in room 404. There's a stranger here in my room. Could you please send someone
immediately?" When I turned back to the door, the man was gone. I got out of bed and walked out in the hall
looking for him. One of the nurse's aides came around the corner and walked toward me.

"Ma'am, did you report an intruder?"
I answered immediately. "Yes, I did. He's gone now. Did you see anyone in the hall? Someone in blue surgical
scrubs with a surgical mask on?"

"No, ma'am. I didn't see anyone at this end of the hall. He must have gone the other way."

She was a young black woman that I thought I'd seen before. Her name badge said her name was Sylvia. The
photo on the badge showed her with long curly hair. She now wore her hair short, close-cropped to her head.

I debated with myself whether to escalate or just let it go. I hesitated to let it go because I'd really been scared,
but I had nothing of any substance to report.

"Thank you, Sylvia, for coming so quickly. Sorry to have bothered you."

"Not a problem, the young woman responded." She turned around and returned the way she'd come. I felt like
an absolute fool, which is probably exactly how my strange visitor wanted me to feel..

I decided to do some reconnoitering and stroll up and down the halls. I still had on my blue fleece robe and I
went back into the room to put on the slippers. I brought my phone/PDA with me and set off down the hall in
the opposite direction from where Sylvia had come.

It was early afternoon and most of the patients on this wing were either napping or had been released. How I
wanted to be released. I went down the end of the hall where there was a red exit sign over a doorway. I opened
the door, which led down a long flight of stairs. I wondered where the stairs led but my curiosity wasn't strong
enough to send me down the stairs looking for an answer. I stood looking down the stairs, envisioning the man
in blue running down the stairs, sure that I was in fast pursuit.

I finally closed the door and slowly walked back to my room. I didn't like any of this. Hospitals were supposed
to be safe places, and I certainly didn't feel so safe at the moment.

I couldn't think of any enemies I had. Who would spook me out like that? And then the word again popped in to
my head. I stood there in the hallway, thinking about some things that had happened to me the past few weeks,
things that I‟d mostly ignored. I‟d taken the approach that if I didn‟t think about them, didn‟t give them any
credence, they wouldn‟t exist. Yes, I know that‟s a head-in-the-sand attitude but sometimes it works for me.

The first puzzling incident had happened about a month ago, at a book-signing I was doing at the Barnes and
Noble in downtown Rivermont. I‟ve known Jeanine, the manager, for awhile and she‟s a real book-lover. I
enjoy my visits there. During the reading, I‟d noticed a man standing off to one side, by one of the book
shelves. He was thumbing through a thick book, seeming to not be paying attention to my talk. He was tall and
thin and had a bushy beard and head of hair. Both were streaked with gray. He wore dark-framed glasses that
seemed to keep slipping down on his nose. His frequent movements to push them back up were disconcerting to
me. I don‟t know why he caught my attention but once he did, I had difficulty concentrating on my talk. I was
trying something different with this appearance, based on something I‟d seen Ridley Pearson do at a Library
presentation he did recently.

He and his wife and two daughters had just returned from a year spent living in China. He‟d taught creative
writing at a university in Shanghai and said it was one of the most intense, rewarding experiences of his life. He
taught a total of 60 students, 30 each semester, none of which had ever written one word of fiction.

He had a brief slide show that featured photos of his family, his students, and Shanghai. He had begun his
presentation by saying he was going to shake it up a bit. He‟d talk about the book, talk about China, and then
finish with a reading from his new book. I don‟t know how he did it, but when he finished talking about China,
I think everyone in that room wanted to go see the country for themselves. He brought the country to us or took
us to the country. His enthusiasm, his enjoyment of that special year came across in every word he spoke.
He told one particularly poignant story of an elderly man who was riding a bike pulling a trailer piled high with
furniture. It was a struggle to watch him peddling the bike but the man was grinning with each difficult up and
down motion of his feet on the pedals. I‟ll never forget what Ridley said about how despite everything, the
Chinese knew how to live. They celebrated life. And that was all that was important.

Anyway, seeing that presentation from Ridley inspired me to shake it up a bit also. My normal book signing
routine is to introduce myself, tell a little bit about me, how I became a writer, then read from my latest book,
then answer questions, then sign books.

I thought about it for a few days, trying to think of something that would provide an extra fillip to the evening.
Then it came to me. Earlier in the year, my parents and I had been part of a charity picnic for a group of
children who lived in a local orphanage. Dad, the amateur photographer, had done both still photos and videos.
It took em a few hours and I had to get some help from Dad, but I put together an presentation that included
Dad‟s photos and videos. He added some background music and voila, I had something special to offer my
attendees.

All during the presentation the bearded man hadn‟t even glanced at the screen. It was as though the group of
people and this presentation didn‟t exist.

Then when I started the reading part of the evening, he began to stare at me. Every time I looked his way, he
was peering directly at me, a frown on his face.

I was worried about what would happen after the reading. I didn‟t want this man in line for me to sign a book.
II was getting perturbed and wasn‟t sure what to do. I considered getting Jeanine to come sit with me at the
book signing table, and that‟s what I ended up doing. The man never got in line. He just stood there off to the
side till everyone had left, including Jeanine and me. Jeanine had wanted to say something to him, to ask him to
leave, but I talked her out of it.

“It‟s probably just my overactive imagination at work. Let‟s let it go.” And we did. But now, as I thought about
it, I was struck by the fact that the intruder in my hospital room could very well have been the bearded man
from the bookstore. The height and build were the same. I didn‟t see the man‟s hair or whether he had a beard
but he could have. That idea really bothered me.

In the past few weeks, there had been several times when I thought I saw the man again, but I never got close
enough to prove or disprove it. And now it‟s possible that he was here in the hospital, or had been here.

As I stood there in the hallway outside the staircase into which my intruder had disappeared, leaning against the
wall, I decided I didn‟t want to go back to my room yet. I wanted to be around people so I went to the waiting
room at the end of the hall. As I‟d hoped, Dr. Talbot‟s mother and daughter were there, watching the Young &
the Restless.

I came and sat beside Mrs. Talbot on one of the sofas in front of the TV.

“Is it all right if I join you?” I asked her.

She smiled and patted me on the arm, and said, “Of course, my dear. We‟d be delighted to have to you join in
our decadence. Jeff can‟t understand our fascination with this soap opera.”

“My Dad is the same way,” I told her. “My Mom and I have watched it like forever and Dad makes fun of us.
But he doesn‟t know what he‟s missing.”
The three of us settled back in a companionable silence to watch the adventures of Victor and Nikki Newman
and their children.

I sneaked a look at the woman sitting next to me, engrossed in the show. I assumed she was somewhere in her
mid to late 60‟s but she didn‟t look her age. She was slender and in good physical shape. Her hair was blond,
obviously not natural, but very natural looking and worn short and curly. . Mrs. Talbot was dressed in jeans and
a plaid shirt, very tailored and crisp looking. All in all, a well put together matron. I remembered seeing her
wear glasses to read but she didn‟t have them on now, so she must be farsighted. I‟m nearsighted and mostly
wear contacts.

Celia, on the other hand, was a different duck altogether. She was your typical teen-aged girl. Her jeans were
faded and interspersed with strategic tears. She had long blond hair caught up in a ponytail high on her head but
you could see a streak of cranberry-colored hair in there. I could imagine how her father and grandmother must
have reacted when she did that. She wore a cranberry tank top, to match the hair, I supposed. She had on lip
gloss, mascara and eyeliner but it looked good on her and she didn‟t seem overly made up. And there were no
visible tattoos or piercings, so good for her father and grandmother in keeping her away from those.

I liked both of them and was glad I‟d made their acquaintance. Dr. Talbot had a nice family and I was sorry I
want going to have to sometime go back to my room and read that horrible online article about his wife‟s death
in a train derailment.

When a commercial came on, Celia asked if we wanted anything from the vending machine. I passed but Mrs.
Talbot asked for a French vanilla cappuccino. She pulled a few dollar bills from her jeans pocket and handed
them to Celia.

Celia was back in a few minutes, carefully carrying the coffee, a can of diet root beer for herself and a bag of
red licorice bites for us to share. I grinned when I saw the candy.

“That‟s my favorite,” I told Celia. “Please don‟t let me make a pig of myself.” Mrs. Talbot and Celia both
laughed at that. I helped myself to a handful of red licorice bites and settled back on the sofa to enjoy the candy.

The soap resumed and we once again became engrossed. When the show ended, I thanked them for the
company and the candy and started to go back to my room. They were headed to Dr. Talbot‟s room and on an
impulse, I asked if I could accompany them. I decided it was time to tell them I‟d been visiting Dr. Talbot these
past days.

As we walked down the hall, I said, “Mrs. Talbot, Celia, there‟s something I want to tell you.”

“Dear, please call me Marge. After sharing a soap opera and red licorice, we‟re beyond formalities.”

I grinned at that and then continued. “I wanted you to know that I‟ve gone to visit Dr. Talbot several times
these past two days. I‟m so grateful to him for shoving me out of the way of that SUV and I wanted to
somehow let him know. I‟ve read the theories that people in comas can actually hear people talking to them.
And if that‟s the case, maybe my visiting him might help bring him around.”

Celia chimed in with, “I‟ve heard the same thing and Gram and I have been talking to Dad also. It certainly
can‟t hurt,” she concluded.

By this time, we‟d reached the door to Dr. Talbot‟s room. It was slightly ajar and Mrs. Talbot paused a moment
before pushing it all the way open. She said, “Usually, the door is closed tightly. I wonder why it was ajar like
that.”

Celia suggested that a nurse had been in a hurry when leaving and had neglected to pull it completely closed.
The three of us walked into the room, single-file, with Mrs. Talbot in the lead, followed by Celia, with me
bringing up the room.

We stood around Dr. Talbot‟s bed, looking down at him. Mrs. Talbot spoke first. “Jeff, here‟s Leslie Davis
come to visit you again, along with the lovely Celia and her best grandmother.”

“Oh, Gram,” Celia said in a teasing voice. “You‟re my only grandmother.”

Celia reached out to hold her father‟s hand, and I saw one small tear slide down her cheek. It twisted my heart
to see this family going through this. To my surprise, I‟d somehow bonded with the three of them. Despite the
circumstances that had brought them into my life, I was glad to know them.

Marge Talbot reached out a hand and gently brushed back a strand of Jeff‟s hair that was on his forehead. “He
always has hair falling on his forehead,” she said with a smile and a slight shake of her head.

“We just finished watching today‟s episode of Y&R,” Celia told her Dad. “You‟ll never believe what Victor
did.” As Celia proceeded to recap today‟s show, I looked questioningly at Marge, and she said quietly to me,
“Yes, Jeff is a Y&R addict like his mother and daughter.”

I stood quietly next to Celia while she and her grandmother chatted to Jeff. They too seemed to believe that he
could hear them, that he understood what they were saying and would very soon wake up.

I thought to myself how much I had grown to like this little family in such a short space of time. They were a
solid little unit and I supposed that Jeff's wife death was behind their closeness. That thought reminded me of
the Yahoo news article from four years ago that was waiting for me on my laptop. I was dreading reading it.
Part of me wanted to ignore it but another part of me knew reading it was something I had to do.

After another couple of minutes, I confessed that I was tired and needed to go back to my room for a nap.

"Let us walk you there, dear," Marge offered.

I smiled at this sweet woman but refused her offer. "I'll be fine," I told her, "I'm just down the hall."

As I left the room, I felt a little wobbly and was grateful for the handrails along each side of the hall. I walked
down the hall with my fingertips brushing against the handrails, liking the security they gave me.


Back in my room, I laid down on the bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. I didn't like the vague signs of
weakness and tiredness I'd experienced today. Normally, I'm as healthy as a horse, abnormally so, my Mom
thinks. What she doesn't quite realize is the extent to which I watch out for my health. I mentioned briefly that
I'm in to vitamins. I'm also into eating healthfully and exercising sufficiently.

Earlier in my life, in my 20s, I burned the candle at both ends, so to speak. No one knows the extent to which I
abused my health. For several years after law school, when I was first working in Mom and Dad's law firm, I
was a high-functioning alcoholic. I lived in one of the loft areas in downtown Rivermont, and hung out with a
crowd of heavy drinkers, young lawyers like myself and other professionals, who thought we were invincible,
that we could do anything we wanted and not pay the price.

I'm fairly certain that neither Mom nor Dad knew how big a problem I had. Neither of them were particularly
heavy drinkers. A glass of wine here, a bottle of beer there, was the extent of their drinking. I managed to hide
my overindulgence and keep up a heavy caseload and log more than my share of billable hours.
It all came to a crashing halt one day after a overly liquid lunch. I came back to the office high but managed as
usual to hide it from everybody, or so I thought. I shut my office door, planning to catch up on some reading,
and promptly fell asleep. I awoke hours later, stiff, sore and hungover. It was dark in my office and dark
outside. At first I didn't want to look at the clock but finally when I did, I was shocked to find it was almost 8 in
the evening. My mouth was so dry, my tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth. I'd fallen asleep head-
down on my desk, and my neck and shoulders ached from the awkward position.

I thought I heard a noise outside my office door and called out, "Is someone there?" I was surprised to hear the
slur in my voice.

There was a faint tap on the door and then it eased slowly open. Standing in the doorway was the admin I
shared with two other lawyers. Her name was Natalia, and she'd been with the firm for almost a year now. She
was a quiet one, revealing very little about her personal life. She was in her mid-thirties, attractive in a retro
way in spite of herself. She dressed in plain neutral-colored skirts and blouses, never wearing jewelry or make-
up, her hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck..

"What are you still doing here?" I had asked, still with a slight slur in my voice and not trying to disguise my
displeasure at her presence.

For a moment, I thought she might turn around and leave. My tone had definitely been unpleasant and meant to
discourage her from talking to me.

Eyes down, hands folder in front of her, she said in a soft voice, "I was concerned about you. I didn't want to
leave without making certain you were all right."

"Why wouldn't I be all right?" I barked at her. I thought she would flinch or turn on her heel. But she just stood
there, eyes down, not speaking.

"Natalia, answer me," I demanded. "Tell me why you thought I wasn't all right."

She answered without looking at me. "Because you'd been drinking. Because you passed out in your office."

I started to protest, then stopped, astounded that this mild, meek little woman had dared to mention my
drinking. So much for thinking I'd hidden it from everyone. Evidently I hadn't hidden it from Natalia.

Finally, she slowly raised her eyes and looked at me. She said in that soft voice, "I'm sorry, Miss Davis. I didn't
mean to offend you. But I was truly worried about you. I know a little bit about drinking. I'm an alcoholic, a
recovering alcoholic, it's true, but an alcoholic all the same, so Imust say I know what I'm talking about."

I stared at her. This mousy little thing couldn't be an alcoholic. And the mousy little thing couldn't be
confronting me. Well, no she hadn't confronted me, she hadn't said anything against my drinking. She had just
said she was concerned about me.

"Why were you concerned?" I asked softly.

Natalia answered just as softly, "I've been where you are. I've spent hours passed out in various places. I
considered myself a high-functioning person who happened to drink a lot. Someone did for me what I'd like to
do for you. I'd like to be your friend. I'd like to be someone you can talk to when you need to."

I tried to think what to say. I wanted to throw her offer back in her face. I didn't need another friend. I had
plenty of friends. And I certainly didn't want to talk to her.
But I decided I didn't want to offend her. She was an excellent administrative assistant, and Mom and Dad
would throw a fit if I chased her off.

I tried to think what to do or what to say but my fried mind was a blank And then to my shock and amazement,
I began to cry. Well, no, actually I began to sob and I couldn't stop sobbing.

Natalia moved in closer, reaching for a box of tissues next to my desk and placing them in front of me. Then
she sat down in the chair next to my desk and just waited until I finished crying.

I wiped my eyes, blew my nose, then shook my head, saying, "I'm sorry about that. I don't know what got in to
me."

She didn't say anything. I continued, "Well, that's not true. I do know what got in to me. It was your offer to
help. No one has ever confronted me about my drinking and offered to help me."

From that night on, Natalia and I became friends. We talked for hours that night and on subsequent nights.
Eventually, she encouraged me to accompany her to an AA meeting close to Mom and Dad's law office.

As time passed, Natalia shared her story with me, and it was a very sad one. She'd been married with a little boy
named Jack. She'd always liked drinking and it had gotten worse as the cracks in the marriage began to appear.
She said she'd taken care that her drinking had never endangered Jack. But eventually her husband had gotten
fed up and had filed for divorce and full custody of Jack. He'd hired a private detective who'd put together proof
of her drinking, and the judge had awarded custody of Jack to his father.

Natalia was prohibited from visitation with Jack until she could prove that she had her drinking under control.
And that had proved to be the incentive she needed. She started going to AA and to a therapist and had
managed to pull her life together.

She had Jack every other weekend and one night each week and those were the high points of her life. She
didn't date and she had few friends. She'd devoted herself to her son, to her recovery and to her job, in that
order.

Over the next couple of years, Natalia and I became close. She rediscovered an ambition she thought she'd lost
and became the office manager, and a really good one at that. I got to meet Jack and he was delightful. He
loved his Mom, despite the unusual custody arrangements. She and her former husband had finally ended up on
cordial terms, which made for an easier life.

That night in my office was the end of my drinking. I tried to give Natalia the credit but she refused it, saying I
was the only who could stop my drinking, just as she'd been the only who could stop her drinking.

I was so grateful that she'd been in my life, at just the precise moment I needed her. I think God does things like
that. Somehow we get what we need when we need it. Over and over again, I've found solutions, ideas,
directions, as if by magic, as if out of the blue.

I believe things work out the way they're supposed to, the way they're meant to work out. Natalia is still in my
life, is still my good and close friend, someone I love and trust. Periodically, we check in at our favorite AA
meeting, held in the basement of the church we both subsequently joined. Natalia teaches a Sunday school class
there and I'm on the board of the church serving as secretary, and also as the Web master of the church's Web
site. Mom and Dad and Todd and Beth also joined my church. I always claim I put no pressure on them to join
or even to try it out. Somewhat grudgingly, they all agreed that there was no overt pressure on my part. But
Todd accuses me of subliminal pressure.
"Sis, you were so happy and so on top of things, and so sure you'd found what you'd always wanted. How could
we resist?" Todd had a way of cutting to core of anything.

At one point, my family credited my happiness to Matt, the young minister of the church I'd joined a and of
course there was a grain of truth in that. But my happiness was more than that of a young woman in love.

Natalia and I had joined the church before Matt Alexander became its new minister. I was a new board member
and one of the first things we worked on after I joined the board was selecting a new minister. The current
minister, a wonderful man in his mid-seventies, had at last decided to retire, to the dismay of the church
members. He was one of those rate entities, a universally loved-by-all minister of a church.

I was appointed to the search committee and I must say, it was the experience of a lifetime. The other three
members of the committee had strong personalities and outspoken opinions. They spoke their minds on any
topic and on all occasions. I had volunteered to manage the paperwork involved in the search process, and I had
no idea what a massive project I had signed on for. It took us more than six months to find the right person for
the church. And that was what we had decreed as our mission -- we had to find exactly the right person for our
church. We weren't willing to accept someone who was almost right, someone who was a compromise
candidate.

We reviewed almost 200 resumes. We did 50 phone interviews. We ended up doing in-person interviews of
nine candidates. Once we narrowed the slate down to the three finalists, we began to have them preach trial
sermons. We also set up meet-and-greet sessions for the congregation following the Sunday services in the
church fellowship hall.

The board's responsibility was to narrow the field of candidates to a manageable number and then to turn the
selection process over to the congregation. Being totally new to this process and concept, I wasn't convinced
that it was going to work out. But that was before the search committee met Matt Alexander. Looking back, I
think I fell in love with him at first sight. I had volunteered to pick him up from the small commuter airport
outside Rivermont. At the time of the job search, he lived and ministered in Michigan. For several years, he'd
been a professor of theology at a small college in northern Michigan but had decided he wanted a congregation
again. He'd been an assistant minister in the college town following his graduation from the school of divinity
in the same town. When the minister became incapacitated, Matt took over his responsibilities on an interim
basis. Then, it became obvious that the minister would never be able to resume him duties. The congregation
and the board had unanimously voted to ask Matt to be the senior minister and he had happily agreed. Then, a
few years after that, he'd been offered a part-time lecturer's position at the college and had taken the offer.

He'd loved the process of teaching, had enjoyed his students, and when an assistant professorship was offered to
him, he accepted. There was some regret at leaving his congregation but the church had an assistant minister
who could easily take over the senior minister position. The way Matt told it to, it was a win-win situation all
around.

I'd once asked him about his bouncing back and forth and he'd said something I'll never forget. We were
engaged by this time, and one of his nicknames for me was WTB -- wife to be. "WTB," he'd drawled in his
pretend southern accent. "You have to go where the Lord sends you, when he sends you. The secret to life is to
follow the Lord's timetable and the Lord's roadmap."

I wasn't so sure I could go along with that approach but didn't express my doubts to Matt. I trusted his judgment
and wisdom and mostly when I wasn't sure about things, if I waited long enough, everything became clear and
understanable.

It had taken a couple of years for Matt and I to begin dating. He waited until my term on the church's board of
directors had expired. Then he consulted with the board and expressed his desire to ask me out. He wanted to
make sure the board considered this appropriate. He later told me that there had been a standing ovation from
all the board members and in jest, they passed a unanimous resolution instructing their minister to go forth and
multiply -- or at the very least to ask Ms. Leslie Davis to dinner.

I was glad I hadn't known about all that when Matt asked me out. If I had, I probably would have been too
embarrassed or eve mortified to agree to a date. But I didn't know about it, and I had always thought Matt was
charming and delightful and a good man, through and through. So of course I said I'd go out to dinner with him.

Another thing I didn't know at the time was that Matt had a raging sense of adventure that he managed to hide
from the congregation. He had taken several high concept vacations -- one to the Serengeti in Africa where he
claimed he was almost chased by a lion and ended up with a sprained wrist. Another time he'd gone rock
climbing out west and broke his ankle. I think in addition to a sense of adventure he may have also been
accident-prone.

I stopped dead in my tracks at that thought, amazed that I was able to have a normal thought about Matt for the
first time in four years. This was a major breakthrough. I probed my emotions, the way you probe a toothache
with your tongue. I was surpirised that the raging grief wasn't there, just a sad happiness and gratitude at having
known and loved Mat

One of the things we had almost immediately discovered we had in common was an admiration for all things
Kennedy. I got mine from parents -- more about that in a minute. Matt said his grandmother had been a
Kennedy admirer from when he ran for president and he'd come to share her fascination with what the media
called America's royal family.

The other night the History Channel had four hours of Kennedy programming. I watched it and thought how
much Matt would have enjoyed it. I thought I knew everything there was to know about the Kennedys but
ended up learning some new things. They'd included an extended segment about JFK Jr. because it was the 10-
year anniversary of the plane crash that took his life.

Even today, the Kennedys are still in the news -- with Teddy's life-threatening brain cancer and Caroline's
aborted attempt to be appointed to Hillary Clinton's New York Senate seat.

Back for a moment to my parents' attachment to the Kennedys. As I've mentioned, they're super liberal and
have always been. They campaigned for Kennedy in 1960 even though they weren't old enough to vote for him.
The assassination happened when Dad was in the Army stationed at Fort Benning and he and Mom live in a
trailer in Columbus, Georgia. Dan was home that Friday -- for reasons I'll talk about later -- and he and Mom
were watching As the World Turns on CBS. The program was interrupted by a news bulletin that the president
had been shot. Then Walter Cronkite was on, gently telling America that their beloved president had died.

Mom said she and Dad had been glued to the TV for that whole weekend, like the rest of the country. The one
thing they missed was Jack Ruby shooting Lee Harvey Oswald on Sunday morning. They'd gone to church at a
small non-denominational chapel on the base and had come home to find the trailer park in an uproar over the
live-on-TV shooting by Ruby.

Mom said they mourned like the rest of the country but their mourning was exacerbated by the other recent
losses they'd suffered. Earlier that year, Dad's father had passed away, from an aggressive form of pancreatic
cancer. Then, tragically, Mom and Dad lost their first-born child to a crib death, a son, named XXX Jr. after
Dad.

I accidentally found out a few years ago that there was another death that year in Georgia that critically affected
my father, one that Mom didn't know about for 20 years.
One day I was in the law office by myself, except for Natalia. Dad was out of town and Mom was home with a
bad cold. She called and asked me to bring some papers from her office and from the safe. I'd said sure, that I
was going out to lunch and I'd bring them by the house on my way.
I picked up the papers Mom needed from her desk, and then went into Dad's office where the safe was. It was a
beautiful old thing, tall and wide and ornate, with the name of the safe company engraved in colorful
calligraphy across the front.

The combination was a combination of memorable family date -- 6 for the month Momand Dad were married, 3
for the month I was born in, 9 for the month Todd was born in and 7 for the month my oldest brother, Jr. was
born in. I slowly turned the tumblers, hearing each click, an d somehow taking a moment to be thankful for my
loving family.

I had difficulty finding the trust agreement Mom had asked me to bring .She and Dad had transferred all their
assets into a living trust several years ago, for tax purposes, and now they needed to update the agreement,
based on the purchase of the building where their law firm was located. For almost 30 years, they'd leased space
in grand old loft building on the riverfront and now they'd finally gotten around to purchasing it.

In my first quick, cursory pass through the documents in the safe, I couldn't find the agreement. It wasn't in the
side drawer of the safe where Mom said I would find it.

I was now sitting on the floor in front of the safe, and I took all the documents out and spread them around me.
One by one, I opened envelopes and file folders and portfolios tied with ribbon.

On of the older looking envelopes held my Dad's Army discharge papers plus a couple of other documents that
caught my eye. I carefully unfolded the thin. almost translucent paper. The first page was title Incident Report
and was dated 1963, the year Mom and Dad lived in Georgia.

As I read the document, a cold chill went through me. I knew this was something I was never intended to see. I
quickly but carefully folded the papers back into the envelope and put it back in the safe as close as I could
remember to the place where it had been. I sat there dumbfounded for a few minutes, shocked at what I'd read,
shocked at the knowledge I now inadvertently shared with my father, and maybe my mother, but I had no way
of knowing if she knew what I now knew.

And I knew deep down inside where the absolute truth of things lies within us that I could never ever let Dad or
anyone know that I knew about this.

With tears in my eyes, I turned back to the remaining papers spread around and found the trust agreement I'd
been looking for.

I carefully placed the rest of the papers back in the safe, shut the door and twirled the combination, then gave it
an extra twist for good measure.

Why in God's name had Dad left those papers in the safe? Why hadn't he destroyed them long ago? And what
in God's name was I going to do with the knowledge I now had?

For several years now, I've tried to forget about what I read in those papers, but haven't been able to.

Awhile later I got to my parents' home. Mom was upstairs in the master bedroom, spread out on the king-sized
bed. She had her laptop, her cell phone, the fax machine, a small printer, her PDA, and several stacks of file
folders. A muted CNN was on the plasma screen TV mounted on one wall of the bedroom. The French doors
that led out to a private deck were ajar, letting in wisps of fresh air tinged with the perfume of holly wreaths --
think of the flower. Faint classical music played through the speakers but the sound was turned so low I
couldn't identify the piece.
I gave Mom the trust agreement and turned to go, not wanting to come under her scrutiny. She reached out a
hand to me and said, "Stay for a bit, sweetie. I need human companionship. There's nobody here except me and
the cats and they're not much for conversation."

I couldn't help grinning at that. Mom usually insisted that she and the cats held regular conversations.

"Where's Dad," I asked, not able to remember what his schedule was this week, then realizing that I probably
hadn't bee told his schedule this week.

"Your father is on his way to Chicago," she answered, then after glancing at the aviation clock mounted on the
wall next to the TV, added "He's probably there by now. He'll be back late tonight. I tried to convince him to
spend the night, but no such luck. He claims he has to be here to take care of me. Can you imagine?"

Again I grinned because no, I couldn't imagine Dad taking care of Mom. It's always been the other way around.
In fact, according to Mom's stories, the Gospel to Todd and me, even when we were born, Mom was up and at
'em a few hours later, taking care of Dad, in addition to taking care of business. Mom is the original Super
Woman, and I have all the respect in world for her.

And yet, there I stood, tongue-tied, not knowing what to say to her, wondering whether she had ever read the
papers I'd just gone through, wondering if she knew what Dad had done, wondering how she could have lived
with that knowledge.

Mom patted the side of the bed and gestured for me to sit down there, close to her.

I shook my head and said, "Sorry, Mom," I really have to get back to the office."

She looked at me quizzically nut then seemed ready to let it go, ready to let me go. Once again, I turned to go,
but then heard a low but carrying voice say my name. "Leslie?" I didn't answer, didn't move, and she said again,
"Leslie?" And this time I couldn't help myself. "Oh, Mom," and I moved toward her and threw my arms around
her neck.

We sat there for a few minutes, holding each other, together in our understanding. I wasn't sure what to say so I
said nothing. It was up to Mom bring it up, if we were going to talk about it.

I heard a sniffle or two and reached over to the bedside table to get a tissue for Mom. She took it from me with
a smile, and a pat on my hand.
.
"Oh, Leslie," she said on a long sigh. There was a moment of silence, and then she said in a barely audible
voice, "You read those papers in that envelope in the safe." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

I said "Mmmm," just as inaudibly.

Now, lying in my Rivermont Memorial Hospital room, I did my best to turn off my thoughts. I glanced at my
watch, surprised to see that I'd been lost in my memories for almost an hour. And all I'd wanted to do was take
a nap. Instead, I'd dredged up a ton of memories that I wished would just stay buried. Fat chance of that.

Jeff Talbot

I was surprised at how sorry I felt when Leslie Davis said good-bye to Mom and Celia and left my room. I was
also surprised at how much I had come to enjoy her visits. Even lying here like a frozen vegetable, I could feel
an unusual sense of connectedness between us. I wondered what she looked like. I envisioned her as being tall
and slender, with dark hair and blue eyes. I hoped I'd have the chance to find out if I was anywhere close to the
truth.

I was getting impatient with this frozen state of mine. I hoped that Mom had been able to arrange for a second
opinion, had been able to find a doctor who would treat my comatose condition more aggressively.

I thought Mom and Celia were sitting close to the bed because I could hear their voices very clearly.

I zoned in and out of their conversation, until Leslie's name surfaced through their words. I turned my attention
to what they were saying and tried to backtrack to the beginning of the discussion about Leslie.

"Gram, it's so neat that we've gotten to meet Leslie. What a miracle to meet our favorite writer. Who would
have thought something like this could happen." I loved the sound of happiness in Celia's voice. I heard it so
seldom these days.

Mom agreed that it was certainly a special thing. "What I like best is what a really nice person she is. She
doesn't have any pretensions; she doesn't "put on airs," as we used to say in my day. She's down-to-earth,
interesting and thoroughly enjoyable. I hope we can continue to see her when --" Here's Mom's voice broke,
and she stopped speaking. The next thing I heard was Celia's gently voice saying, "Gram, please don't cry.
Daddy is going to be just fine. We just have to believe that."

If I could have cried, I would have. I felt so bad for what Mom and Celia were going through. Somehow they
must think I'm no longer with them. I wish I could let them know that I'm right here, that I too believe that
everything is going to be just fine.

Earlier, one of the times when Leslie visited me, I thought I could vaguely remember her saying something
about coming to my grief workshop. But I didn't remember the workshop so I didn't remember Leslie. The last
thing I remember is the morning of the day the accident or whatever it was happened. I remembered driving
Celia to the nearby high school. I remembered going to my office at the university but that's as far as I get. I
figure that must have been about 9 a.m. Everything after that is a blank. I don't remember teaching my classes
that day, I don't remember anything about the grief workshop that evening. In fact, I don't even really remember
that I was going to hold a grief workshop. I'd never done anything like that before, and I don't know where the
idea came from or what it meant.

From a few things that Mom and Celia had said, I got a general idea that my day must have been a normal one
up until the accident or whatever happened. Mom had been talking with Celia at my bedside about how she'd
kept some dinner warm for me and had forgotten all about it when the two policeman came to the front door to
tell them about the accident and who subsequently drove them to Rivermont Memorial.

I kept puzzling over the idea of the grief workshop. What would I have said? What activities would we have
done? I'd never participated in a grief workshop and I didn't think I'd know how to do it. But evidently I did.
What a concept!

As I lay there pondering the workshop, I heard a woman's voice that I didn't recognize.

"Mrs. Talbot?"

Mom answered "Yes, I'm Mrs. Talbot."

"I'm Dr. Derringer - Dr. Althea Derringer. I believe you called me for a consultation on your son?"

"Oh, yes, Dr. Derringer, of course. Thank you so much for coming, especially on such short notice."
"Not at all, not at all. Would it be possible for you and your -- granddaughter to wait for me in the waiting while
I examine your son. It will take a few minutes and there's no need for you stay here."

I heard the hesitation in Mom's voice as she answered, "Well, I'm happy to stay, to answer any questions you
might have."

The doctor answered in a kindly tone, "Thank you, that's very generous of you, but it would be easier for me to
do the exam..." her voice trailed off and Mom evidently got the idea because she said, "Of course, Dr.
Derringer. I understand. My granddaughter and I will be down the hall in the waiting room."

I heard the door close and then thought I felt cool, gentle hands begin to examine me. I couldn't determine
whether I could actually feel her touching me or whether it was my imagination. It was the first semblance of
feeling that I'd experienced since finding myself in this predicament. It took her quite awhile and so from that
respect it felt like a thorough exam. Whatever, I hoped this doctor would be able to discover why I wasn't
waking up.

I liked the fact that Dr. Derringer talked to me as she did the examination, telling me exactly what she was
doing and why. The previous doctors had treated me like a slab of meat when they examined me. Evidently seh
ascribed to the theory that it was very possible that comatose patients were able to hear and understand what
was going on around them.

"Now, Dr. Talbot, I'm going to test your reflexes and some of the things I do may cause you a bit of pain. I
apologize in advance for that."

I wasn't able to detect what tests she was doing, nor did I feel any pain.

"You know, Dr. Talbot, there are times when a patient will willingly and deliberately remain in a coma when
there's no physical reason for the coma. Just a piece of information I thought you might like."

For the next few minutes, she was silent, as she seemingly went about the testing process. I still wasn't able to
tell what she was doing. All I could do was imagine that cool, capable hands were roaming across my body,
searching for a cause of my unconsciousness.

I was sure that Dr. Derringer wouldn't share any of her findings with me. She would meet with my mother in
private, probably without Celia present, and tell Mom what she had found. Eventually, I would find out but not
in a very timely manner. This infuriated me. This was my body. This was my problem and I was almost
completely out of the loop. At that moment, if sheer will power could've awakened me, I would have jerked
awake and demanded that she talk to me. What a nut, I am, I thought, but with an inward smile. It had been
days since I felt like smiling so I took that as a good and positive sign.

It was encouraging to me that my attitude and mood were good -- on an even keel -- and not down and
depressed. I'd never been a down individual, except when Miriam died. And it had taken me years to get
beyond that. I had hidden my ongoing grief from everyone but my mother and daughter. They were suffering
the same grief and as kindred souls, we grieved together, in a loving and caring way.. I felt that it was my place,
my responsibility to get the three of us past our grief, but I'd been unable to do that. Only time had helped us.
And now, even after four years, I knew that we would never truly be completely free of our mourning the loss
of Miriam. She was such a special person and had occupied such a special place in our lives. My Mom had
loved her like a daughter. And my daughter had worshipped her mother.

The three of us had formed a tight little trio of support and had managed to make it one day at a time. It helped
that I sometimes felt Miriam's presence, felt that she was still here with us, watching over us, and probably
grieving over our grief. She would have wanted us to let go of the pain and hurt and loss, to have gotten back
into the rhythm of life, to have lived life to its fullest, as she always tried to do.
Sometimes there are special people and my Miriam was one of the special ones. I had recognized that from the
first day I met her.

The mission had been hard duty. I had become accustomed to running water and electricity and hadn‟t adapted
well to their absence. My classmate, Josh Williams, had been on missions for years with his parents and took
the lack of civilization in stride.

It took me a month or so to adjust but I finally managed. My normal attitude is upbeat and for those few weeks
I couldn‟t find that upbeat part of me. But eventually, there it was. Back on my even keel, I began to groove on
the adventure. My part of the mission was carpentry. The South American natives lived in ramshackle,
rundown hovels and my responsibility was to repair what I could and rebuild what I couldn‟t repair.

My classmate was on his way to becoming an ordained As a so his responsibilities included preaching the
gospel and attempting to convert the natives. I hammered all day and Josh preached all day. By evening, after
one of our makeshift dinners, we could only sit on the tree stumps that served as chairs in front of our tent and
talk about what we‟d done that day.

About two months into our time there, a new group of missionaries arrived from the states. One of them was a
young woman with a low-key beauty, a beauty that didn‟t flaunt itself – it was just there.

Her name was Miriam Scott and she was there with her parents, just like Josh was. She too was studying to be a
minister. I have to admit from the moment I laid eyes on Miriam, I was bedazzled. Whenever I could, I
followed her around like a lost puppy dog. Josh razzed me about my crush, but never in front of Miriam. He
was after all, one of my best friends, and a good hearted guy at his core.

Miriam was also a good-hearted soul and she tolerated my attachment to her with good spirit. And a miracle
began to happen. She evidently saw something interesting in me and she began to engage in conversations with
me during my hanging-around episodes.

I had known from day one that I‟d found the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. But I was able
to restrain myself from getting down on one knee and proposing. Evenings, Miriam began joining Josh and me
on our tree stumps and the two of them had long, involved theological discussions. I didn‟t mind being left out
of the conversations. It was enough to sit there in the dark and hear her voice. As a byproduct of those evening
sessions, I learned a lot about the scriptures, or at least Miriam‟s and Josh‟s interpretation of the scriptures.

As the time grew near for Josh and me to leave, I began to plot. Should I try to stay for as long as Miriam was
here? Should I tell her how I felt? No, I hadn‟t told her, fool that I am. Finally, a week before I was supposed to
leave, I suggested to her that we take a walk. We strolled into the woods on a well-worn path that led towards a
small clearing where worship services were held on Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings.

We each had flashlights but there was an almost full moon so we could easily make our way to the clearing.
The clearing had a tall tree stump that served as a makeshift pulpit for whatever ministers were preaching.
Scattered in front of the pulpit were other tree stumps, either as standalone seating or fashioned into rough-
hewn benches. The natives were pleased with their rustic chapel, and actually so was I. I admired the ingenuity
that built it and the humility of the people for whom it had been built.

The six months I‟d spent here had changed me. Not that I was so bad to begin with but I was just so unaware.
I‟d grown up in a loving, middle-class family and had never really wanted for anything. Oh sure, some of my
buddies got cars when they turned 16 or when they graduated from high school and I had to drive my Mom‟s
very used Ford. But I mostly considered myself a lucky fella. And this mission had heightened my gratitude for
who I was, what I had and what I was going to do with my life.
Now, here in the clearing with Miriam, I was about to take one of the biggest steps I‟d ever taken in my life. I
was going to declare my feelings for her and hope and pray that she reciprocated my feelings.

At Miriam‟s suggestion, we sat on one of the benches at the back of the clearing. Almost in unison, we turned
off our flashlights and laid them on the ground at our feet.

I reached out and took one of Miriam‟s hands in both of mine.

I cleared my throat and plunged in. “You know I‟m leaving next week. I‟m going home to Rivermont and I
have some job interviews lined up there and in St. Louis, which is near there.”

Miriam was from Wisconsin and as far as I knew was planning to return there when her mission was over. So I
was dumbfounded when she answered, “Yes, I‟ve visited Rivermont. In fact, I‟m starting a job there in a month
as a junior minister in one of the smaller churches in the suburbs.”

I was so surprised at that revelation that I was truly speechless, something that very rarely happened. I
stammered, “Rivermont? You‟re going to be in Rivermont.”

“Yes,” she answered, and then said something that astounded me even more. “If we‟re going to be married, I
think it would be a good thing for us to live in the same city, don‟t you?”

As I remember it, I think I squeaked out, “Married? Married?” and then gave up on words and kissed her very
thoroughly.

I soon found out that unbeknownst to me, Miriam had arranged for her father to get her a junior minister
position with a friend of his in Rivermont. She‟d grown impatient with me, waiting for me to speak up, and me
not doing it. So she took things into her own hands, her very capable hands, I might say.

So that‟s how it happened. We were married at Christmas of that year. I‟d gotten a temporary position at
Rivermont University as a lecturer in the psychology department, and I was hoping it would grow into a
permanent job.

And so began our life. It was a great life. Oh, don't get me wrong, we had our troubles, our challenges, but we
had 15 good years. One of our challenges involved conceiving Celia. We tried to get pregnant for five years,
with no results. We had all the tests, Miriam took all the hormones, but nothing seemed to work. Because we
didn't have the money or the health insurance for in vitro, we had initiated adoption proceedings three years into
our trying phase but hadn't heard anything back yet.

We both struggled with our struggle. It was hardest on Miriam, both emotionally and physically, with all the
hormone treatments. We each had within us so much love and nurturing that we wanted to give to a child and
there was no outlet for those feelings. We even got a kitten, which we named Toby, as a surrogate child, just so
we had something other than each other to lavish attention on. Toby is still a much-loved senior citizen member
of our family.

Somewhere along the line, after five years of monthly heartbreak, we resigned ourselves to childlessness,
unless the adoption miracle came to pass.

By that time, I was an assistant professor of psychology at Rivermont and Miriam was a minister of her own
church, a small congregation in a suburb of Rivermont. We had a fixer-upper house that kept my carpentry
skills honed close to Miriam's church, which didn't have the funds for a manse for its minister. The commute
was a 45-minute drive for me but I managed to fill the time with listening to books on tape.
Life was good. We were soul mates and so much in love, that sometimes I felt guilty about how lucky I was.
The summer of our fifth year of marriage, Miriam had plans to go on another mission trip, this time with the
church youth group, back to the village in South America where we met. Because I was supposed to teach the
summer session of intro to psychology, I wasn't going to be able to accompany the mission group.

This was a disappointment to both of us. We'd thought it would be an adventure to go back to the beginning of
our relationship. Then at the 11th hour, the summer session was cancelled, due to lack of enrollment. So the trip
was on for both of us.

Miriam had gotten a foundation grant to fund the mission but she still had to pinch pennies to make the grant
cover the costs of the trip. The youth group held a series of fundraisers to supplement the grant so Miriam and
the teens were buried in car washes and ice cream socials and garage sales up to the moment of our departure.

One of her major cost-savings brainstorms was that instead of flying commercial, Miriam made arrangements
for the 10 of us, eight students, Miriam and myself, to fly to South America on a cargo plane owned and
operated by a member of the congregation.

We knew we'd have to rough it on the flight, but didn't really know how rough it would get. The seats were
actually metal benches lining the sides of the front part of the aircraft. The seatbelts were actually cargo straps
that we somehow managed to wrap around our bodies as jerry-rigged restraints. But it was a hoot, an adventure.

I can honestly say the mission trip was the best 10 weeks of my life. The teenagers were eager to help the
natives and had so much hard work in them. To my surprise, I was eager to strap on my carpenter's belt and
start building and repairing again. And Miriam was on fire with her zeal to preach and convert.


We slept in two large tents, one for the boys and me, and the other for Miriam and the girls. There were also
tents for meals, one for church services and one that served as Miriam's office during the mission. Clever folks
that we are, we had a cot with an air mattress in the office tent and that's where we met in the middle of the
night to make love. I'm not a romantic kind of guy. I'm very down-to-earth and level-headed, but even hard-
nosed Jeff had to admit that was a romantic summer. We took care to hide our love-making sessions as best we
could but I had a feeling that we weren't putting anything over on the kids.

After we'd been there about a month, we received a visit from a ecology group that had arranged to provide the
village with a water treatment facility designed to purify the water in the nearby river. I was fascinated with the
technology and neglected my carpentry work in favor of following the visiting engineers around as they worked
for the two weeks that the group was in the village. Once the facility was in place, they moved on to another
village. Our villagers were thrilled with the water treatment. They could now drink the water without fear of
getting sick. The mission people were ecstatic about the drinking water -- we'd quickly run out of the bottled
water we'd brought with us and spent a lot of time and effort boiling our drinking water. We were also happy to
have non-muddy river water to shower in and launder our clothes. All in all, the water people were a big hit
with the villagers and the missionaries.

When it was time to head back to the states, we were sorry to leave the village behind and Miriam and I
promised each other that one day we'd come back. Sadly, we were never able to keep that promise.

Miriam hadn't felt well the last week or so we were there, and she said she'd be glad to return to civilization and
to food that didn't upset her stomach. The flight back to Rivermont was a great improvement over our flight
there. One of the church members had arranged for us to fly back on a commercial flight, at greatly reduced
fares. The 10 of us sat together in the back of the plane, and we entertained ourselves by comparing this flight
to our rough and tumble cargo plane experience. We were the hit of the plane, waited on by the stewards,
visited by the pilot and co-pilot, and the object of fascinated questions by some of the other passengers who
knew nothing about serving a mission and wanted details.
I began to worry about Miriam on the flight. She slept fitfully most of the way home. She gently insisted she
was fine and that I was not to worry about her. She made me socialize with the other passengers while she tried
to sleep. When we arrived home, Miriam still wasn't herself. Mom came to see us as soon as we were home and
she had a fit at how pale Miriam was and fretted about the dark circles under her eyes and the weight she'd lost.
I think Mom's opinion always carried more weight with Miriam so Miriam began to pay attention.

"Sweetie," Mom said to my wife, "We're taking you to the emergency room right now and I don't want to hear
any argument. Do you understand?"

Miriam had meekly nodded her head and had grabbed her purse and headed toward the front door. I couldn't
believe she'd agreed to go to the ER -- this meant her condition was really serious. Miriam was always healthy,
never needed a doctor so this acquiescence was extremely unusual.

I walked Miriam out to the car, with Mom following close behind. Mom brought an afghan and a pillow with
her out to the car. After Miriam laid down in the back seat, Mom tucked her in and then got in the front
passenger seat. Rivermont Memorial was downtown, several miles from our house. I drove faster than I
should have, not caring if I got stopped by a cop. But there were no cops around and we made it to the hospital
in record time.

Once in the waiting room, I started really worrying. Miriam wasn't able to sit up. So I sat down on a couch and
she sat next to me and laid her head down in my lap. Mom took care of the registration, bless her heart. I was so
worried about my wife that I wouldn't have been able to answer the unending string of questions the trauma
nurse was asking. I heard Mom tell the nurse that Miriam had just returned from South America, having served
a mission in the wilds. That got the nurse's attention. She came out from behind the counter over to where
Miriam lay.

"Ma'am," the nurse said in a soft voice as she kneeled down in front of Miriam. "We need to get you into an
exam room right away. Can you walk or shall I get a wheelchair?"

Miriam attempted to lift her head to answer but she didn't seem to have even the strength to do that. I kept my
arm around her tight and said to the nurse, "Can you please get a wheelchair?"

The nurse nodded, stood and walked quickly back to the admitting desk. She called to one of the orderlies who
was sitting at the desk. "Tommy, can you get a wheelchair over here and help me move this lady into exam
room number 1."

The orderly, a tall, gangly boy of about 20 pushed a wheelchair toward where Miriam lay on my lap. He and the
nurse gently moved Miriam into the chair and then headed toward the back of the ER. I stood and started to
follow them.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to wait here. No on e but patients and medical personnel can go into the exam
rooms."

I stood there dumbfounded for a moment, and then said, "I'm Dr. Jeffrey Talbot and I'm affiliated with the
hospital through my position as a professor at Rivermont University."

The trauma nurse stared at me for a moment, and then decided it wasn't worth the fight. "Come along, then,"
she said in a resigned tone. The orderly pushed the wheelchair and I walked along beside it, my hand on
Miriam's shoulder. I was surprised at how bony her shoulder felt beneath my hand. I'd thought she'd lost some
weight but hadn't actually realized how thin she'd gotten.
Inside the room, the nurse helped Miriam up on the exam table, had her lie back, then covered her with one of
those disposable paper blankets. To my surprise, the nurse reached into one of the supply cabinets and brought
out a box of disposable facemasks and handed us each one.

"What's this for?" I asked but I was afraid that I knew all too well.

"Just to guard against contagion. You said you just came back from South America, and it's possible that your
wife picked up some kind of bug down there."

I nodded then helped Miriam put on her mask before putting on my own. The nurse stepped out into the hall
and in a moment I could hear her voice over the hospital paging system, asking Dr. Remington to come to the
ER. I assumed Dr. Remington must specialize in infectious diseases.

In a few minutes, a dark-skinned man in a white doctor's coat came through the open door.

"Mrs. Talbot?" he said in a soft voice. "I'm Doctor Remington and I'm here to get you back on your feet again --
and out of our hospital, no matter how much you might want to stay."

His last remark drew a faint smile from Miriam, and I thought how much I loved her and how proud I was of
the way she was handing this unfortunate medical crisis.

"And you are Mr. Talbot?" Dr. Remington said to me.

"Yes, I am."

"Mr. Talbot, could you please give me a few moments alone with your wife to examine her. It would be easier
to do the exam without you in the room. I'm sure you understand. You can wait right outside the door if you
want.

I didn‟t want to leave. I was reluctant to let Miriam out of my sight but I realized that I really had no choice.
This was not up for discussion.

I leaned down and gave Miriam a kiss on her forehead. She'd had a tight grip on one of my hands, and now she
gave it a gentle squeeze.

I went outside the room and closed the door behind me. I stood there leaning against the wall, trying to hear
inside the room but couldn't detect anything.

The nurse went back into Miriam's room carrying an armload of medical supplies that I couldn't identify. A few
minutes later, a white-coated person pushing a cart full of vials of blood and other fluids went into the room and
stayed for about five minutes, then came out and went back down the hall. After a few more minutes, another
white-coated person took what looked like a portable X-ray machine into Miriam's room. That's when I started
to get really worried. Before, I'd thought it was the flu or jet lag or some harmless virus or bug but now it
seemed more serious than that.

I wanted to somehow let Mom know what was going on but I didn't dare go back to the waiting room for fear
they wouldn't let me back in here. And the place was full of signs threatening dire consequences if you used
your cell phone. So there was no way to get in touch with her at the moment.

After what seemed like an hour, but probably was no longer than 20 or 30 minutes, the nurse stuck her head out
the door and said, "Dr. Talbot, you can come back in."
I walked back in the room and was more than a little surprised to see that Miriam now was in a tented
contraption that encased the bed. The sides were clear plastic and I could see her lying there, her eyes closed,
her face pale and beaded with sweat.

"Doctor, what in the world is that thing? What's wrong with my wife that you have to put her in something like
that?"

"Mr. Talbot, we're not sure what's wrong with your wife so we're taking all necessary precautions. We're having
some blood work done on a rush basis but in the meantime we thought it best to completely quarantine her. I
wonder if you could answer a few questions about her condition. She's been drifting in and out and hasn't been
able to answer many of my questions."

I didn't like the sound of that "drifting in and out" and debated whether to pursue that line or to answer the doc's
questions. I decided to opt for the questions as the less traumatic of the two choices.

"What is it you need to know, Dr. Remington, isn't it?"

"Yes, Remington. I need to know when you first noticed your wife's symptoms?"

For a moment, I was silent as I I thought back to yesterday and then the day before, which actually seemed a
long time ago.

"Miriam hasn‟t felt well for about a week now, but I think she started feeling really badly the day before
yesterday. We were packing up, getting ready to come back home, and she complained of a headache and of
being tired. I remember she described it as being excruciatingly tired. I made her rest while I did all the
packing. I was worried because Miriam is healthy and never has any physical complaints so this was unusual."

“Did she say anything about a fever?” Dr. Remington was taking notes as I talked, and he looked up from his
clipboard.

“No, not that I can recall. It was hot where we were staying – so perhaps she could‟ve had a fever and not
noticed it.”

“Were there any other symptoms? Vomiting? Diarrhea?”

“Miriam had had an upset stomach for a couple of days before we left and said she‟d be glad to get home to
food that didn‟t upset her stomach. But I don‟t think she had any vomiting or diarrhea.”

“Hmm,” Dr. Remington slid his pen back into the pocket protector in his white coat.

“We should have some preliminary results from the blood tests in an hour or so. You can stay here with your
wife while we wait for the results.”

Dr. Remington started towards the door, and I followed behind him. He turned back to ask, “You don‟t want to
stay here with your wife?”

“Of course I do, but my mother is in the waiting room, and I need to let her know what‟s going on.”

“I‟m afraid you‟re going to have to stay here, in isolation, until we determine what‟s wrong with your wife. I‟ll
go talk with your mother. What‟s her name?”

“Marge Talbot. You mean I can‟t leave this room?” This was not a good feeling.
I‟m sorry, Mr. Talbot, but if this some infectious disease we need to keep you quarantined so you don‟t spread
it to others.”

At the door, he turned back to me and said, “There‟s a rest room connected to this room and a water dispenser
in the corner there. Is there anything else you need?”

I wanted to say, “I need my wife to be all right and I need to get both of us out of this hospital.”

But I said, “No, thank you, doctor,” and turned back to sit on the stool beside my wife‟s bed.

It took longer than an hour to get the results of the blood tests. In fact, the technician came back in the room
shortly after Dr. Remington left and drew two more vials of blood.

A few minutes after that, a nurse came in to tell me that Dr. Remington had spoken to my mother. The nurse
said, “She asked the doctor to tell you she‟d get some rest out there in the waiting room and for you not to
worry about her. And that she was praying for your wife.”

I thanked the nurse, thinking that sounded just like Mom.

Finally, Dr. Remington was back, with a sheaf of papers in hand and a decidedly puzzled look on his face.

He did a brief examination of Miriam, then turned to me. “I‟m afraid we don‟t have a definitive answer. The
blood tests show a low-grade infection, but in light of her condition, I‟m not sure how aggressively we want to
treat that…”

I interrupted him to ask, “Her condition? What do you mean?”

Dr. Remington looked at me quizzically and said, “Her pregnancy.”

“Her what?” I heard the squeak in my voice.

“The blood tests showed that she‟d pregnant. How far along is she?”

I tried to answer but at first nothing came out. “Doctor, this is a complete shock to me. We had no idea that
Miriam was pregnant. In fact, we‟d given up hope that it would ever happen so you must see what surprise this
is.” I looked down at Miriam in her clear plastic cocoon and wished she were awake so I could share this
joyous news with her.

“You can‟t imagine what this means. For five years, we‟ve been trying to get pregnant with no success. And
now to have this wonderful thing happen and Miriam not know about it.”

Dr Remington reached out to shake my hand, saying :”Then please let me be the first to congratulate you , Mr.
Talbot.”

I shook hands with him, thinking how ironic it was that this stranger knew about Miriam‟s pregnancy before
she did.

“Doctor, is she going to wake up soon?” I asked, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.

“I don‟t know, Mr. Talbot. I have no idea what‟s wrong with her and no idea what to expect or what to do about
her condition.”
Dr. Remington was silent for a few moments, then said, “I‟ll start treating her with a low-dose antibiotic that
won‟t harm the fetus. We‟re also running fluids into her because she‟s dehydrated and has been for a few days,
I‟d expect. We won‟t get more definitive results on the blood work until sometime tomorrow when the lab techs
finish running the more sophisticated processes to detect what specific organism and infection we‟re dealing
with here.”

He paused, then added, “We‟d like you to spend the night here until we determine if you‟re infectious and need
to be treated also. I can have a cot brought in and we‟ll let your mother know what‟s going on. She‟s welcome
to stay out in the waiting room until we have more information.”

I thanked him and turned back to Miriam, wanting so badly to share this news with her.

A few minutes later the orderly named Tommy came through the door, pulling a rollaway bed behind him. He
was followed by another nurse, not the one who been in here several times. She had a stack of sheets and
pillows and blankets in her arms and she put them on one of the empty cabinet tops. Tommy set the bed up and
the nurse put the bedclothes on it. I thanked them both and watched in silence as they left me alone with my
wife. The nurse had dimmed the lights as she left, saying in a soft voice, “Good night, sir. I‟ll keep your wife in
my prayers.” Her kind words brought a brief sting of tears to my eyes and I shook my head to dispel any
further tearing up. Miriam needed me strong and in control, not weakly weeping.

I lay down on the cot, which was just as hard and unyielding as it looked. I was sure I wouldn‟t fall asleep any
time soon, and I was so right. I was vaguely aware of nurses coming in and out throughout the rest of the night.
I could tell that they were trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to disturb me. Evidently they assumed I was
sleeping and I had no intention of letting them know that I was lying there as awake as could be.

Dr. Remington came back early in the morning. There was a wall-mounted clock on one wall with a dim
backlight that showed it was 5:30 a.m.

He made no effort to be quiet, evidently knowing that I was awake, and probably accurately assuming that I‟d
been awake most of the night. I got up from the cot, put on my loafers and walked over to stand next to him
beside Miriam‟s hospital bed.

She seemed to still be asleep as he unzipped the protective tent in which she lay. But as began to take her blood
pressure, she opened her eyes. From where I stood, I could just barely see her face but it seemed to me that she
was either trying to smile or to speak, or both at the same time. But she made no sound.

“Good morning, Mrs. Talbot,” Dr. Remington spoke softly. “How are we this morning?”

I tried to ignore my annoyance at the “we” that medical people sometimes insisted on using. I‟m sure they had a
good reason but it was sort of a pain.

Miriam pointed to her mouth, and Dr. Remington understood immediately that she meant her mouth was so dry
that she couldn‟t talk. He reached over to the bedside cabinet for water pitcher and a glass with a straw and
poured water into the glass. Very carefully, trying not to spill the water, he reached glass inside the tent and put
the straw to her mouth. She took long pulls on the straw, almost emptying the glass. Finally, she pulled back
and Dr. Remington took the glass away.

“Thank you,” Miriam said in faint voice that was barely above a whisper.

“How do you feel this morning?” Dr. Remington asked, once again trying to take her blood pressure.

“Not so good,” came that faint voice from the tent. “Maybe better than last night but still not so good. Do you
know what‟s wrong with me?”
Dr. Remington shook his head as he said, “You have some kind of low-grade infection but we‟re still waiting
for more results of the blood tests. We should have those sometime later today. We‟ve had to keep you and
your husband in quarantine in case the infection is contagious.”

“My husband..”

“He‟s right here beside me,” Dr. Remington said as he moved aside so I could stand in front of Miriam. I
reached in through the opening of tent and took her hand.

“Good morning, sweetheart. You gave Mom and me quite a scare last night.”

“I don‟t remember what happened. The last thing I remember is getting on the plane in Santa Lucia. After that
there‟s nothing.”

I turned to Dr. Remington in concern and asked, “Is that normal? To forget things that happened?”

“Yes, it happens quite often. It isn‟t anything to worry about. The memories may come back or then again,
they may stay lost forever.” He made a few notes on Miriam‟s chart and then turned to go.

“I‟m sure you two have a lot to talk about. I‟ll be back as soon as we have the test results.” He gave us a wide
smile then left. I turned back to Miriam, wanting to share our joyous news with her.

I was still holding her hand, inside the plastic quarantine tent, and I gave it a squeeze.

"What is it?" she asked me. "I can tell you have something you're dying to tell me. You always get that look on
your face -- she broke off abruptly and started to cough. I let go of her hand and went to get her some more
water."

"Thank you, sweetheart," she said, after a couple of long pulls on the straw. "Now tell what's made you so
happy."

I was amused that she could sense my happiness shining through this tense situation we were going through. I
took her hand again and leaned my head close to hers, wishing I were holding her in my arms while I told her
about the miracle that was going to happen for us.

"Miriam, a miracle has happened." She gave me a quizzical look and said, "What miracle?"

I couldn't hold back the words any longer. "We're pregnant!"

"What are you talking about?" she said, an I could hear hurt and disappointment in her voice and hurried to
explain so that I could replace the look of sadness on her face with one of joyous celebration.

"Sweetheart, it's true. One of the blood tests that Dr. Remington did came back positive for pregnancy. Isn't that
the most wonderful thing ever?" I leaned my head closer to her and kissed her on the forehead.

"Jeff, is it true? This isn't a dream or a hallucination? Can you please pinch me?" I laughed out loud, the first
time I'd felt like laughing since this nightmare began.

Very gently I pinched her arm and she gave an exaggerated yelp, then squeezed my hand hsrd.

"I can't believe. After all these years of trying, and then when we finally stop trying, it happens."
"They say that happens a lot," I said contentedly.

"Oh, do they?" Miriam said in a teasing tone, that brought a sting of tears to my eyes. She sounded like her old
self and that was a double miracle for me.

"It must have been all that work we did in your office on the mission, at least the part that took place on the
cot."

This time it was her pinching me, although not quite as gently.

We held hands for awhile, each lost in our own thoughts and probably in our prayers of thanksgiving about this
blessing that had come into our lives. I wanted so much to share this news with Mom and made up my mind to
somehow go see in her in the waiting room.

Just then, as if reading my mind, one of the nurses came into the room to give me a message from my Mom and
to bring a breakfast tray for Miriam and one for me. "I went out to give your mother an update on your wife,
that she's awake and talking, and that the doctor is much encouraged. She asked me to tell you how happy she
was to hear that and that she was going home to change clothes and to bring back some clean clothes for you.
Hopefully, we'll have even better news for her when she gets back. Dr. Remington is expecting the results of
the final set of blood tests back from the lab any minute. And I just know that they're going to be good."

She gave us a smile and left the room. I turned to Miriam and said, "The people in this hospital are really
great!" Miriam nodded and I said, "I like that nurse's positive attitude and I'm going to try to emulate her.'

I went over to the counter where the nurse had set the breakfast trays and brought back a glass of orange juice
and a piece of toast for Miriam. I put a straw in the juice and helped her take a few sips. She managed a couple
of bites of toast and then motioned it away. I popped the rest in my mouth and washed it down with the orange
juice. Our ordeal hadn't affected my appetite, evidently.

We spent the next few minutes in silence, holding hands. I noticed that Miriam had dozed off again, and I was
glad she was getting the rest she needed. I gently let go of her hand and went back to the breakfast trays. The
bacon and scrambled eggs on one of the trays, mine, I supposed, were cold but that didn't matter to me. I was
still starving and made short work of them. There was a cup of cold coffee but I needed the caffeine and paid no
attention to it being cold. I polished off another piece of toast and left the other piece for Miriam, along with a
cup of fruit and some dry cereal and milk I could fix for her when she woke up, if she felt like eating.

I still couldn't wrap my mind around the idea of a baby. We'd been trying for five years and now here we were,
pregnant. Mom was going to be so excited. She'd wanted grandchildren for as long as I'd been married. My
sister Gwen wasn't married and probably never would be. She was a hotshot lawyer in Chicago and was
interested only in her career. She'd made partner two years ago and was on the fast track to having a shot at
being selected managing partner of the firm. She hadn't been back home for a visit for more than two years.
Mom went up to Chicago several times a year and last Christmas, Miriam, Mom and I had driven up there to
spend the holiday with her. Gwen lived on Lakeshore Drive in downtown Chicago, in a high-rise condo with
floor to ceiling windows that had a view of Lake Michigan -- high ticket all the way, that was my baby sister
Gwen.

I couldn't wait to share our good news with Gwen. She'd be almost as over the moon as Mom was going to be.
Gwen loved kids, even if she didn't want any of her own. She'd told me once that she knew better than to have a
baby --"I'm sure I'd get so wrapped up in a case that I'd forget to feed it or something." I'd told her she was
exaggerating but I knew there was a kernel of truth in what she said and I knew she was wise enough to know
what she should and shouldn't do -- something that most people aren't.
I hoped that Mom hadn't alerted Gwen to Miriam's hospitalization but I would have bet my last nickel that
Gwen was already on her way from Chicago to Rivermont. Well, c'est la vie -- and c'est mon mere.

I brought myself back to the reality of the moment. Before we did any celebrating about this new life, we
needed to get Miriam back on her feet and out of the hospital. While I was polishing off the breakfast trays and
daydreaming, Miriam had awakened, and lay there in her tent, with a sweet smile on her face. I was taken aback
at how peaceful she looked, as if had a secret assurance that everything was going to be okay.

I had never gotten accustomed to Miriam's profession, her calling as a minister. To me, she seemed like a
regular person, not someone who had a special pipeline to some higher being. She claimed she didn't have any
special in, but I knew different. I knew her prayers had more power than mine, especially mine. I was pragmatic
in my religious beliefs and tried to keep an open mind and believe in all things. And that was fine with Miriam.
Her theory on religion was eclectic, and she was in favor of whatever worked.

She was a beautiful woman and was humbly aware of her good looks and the effect they had on people. In her
professional life, she toned down her looks, wearing minimal make-up, a severe hairstyle and conservative
clothes. It was only in our personal family life that she made the most of her natural good looks. The first time
Mom saw Miriam "all gussied up" as Miriam called her transformation into a glamour girl, Mom actually
couldn't believe her eyes. She didn't believe it was Miriam. We all had a good laugh over Mom's evident
confusion.

There was a kind and gentle goodness that permeated every part of Miriam. She came from a God-loving
family and her parents had cherished her. Somehow all those things had concatenated into a purity of soul that I
found absolutely irresistible.

And she was sexy in her own uninhibited, unaware way. And she had a sense of humor and enjoying laughing
with me. And she loved movies, as did I. And reading. And walking. And water skiing -- which I abhor but
which I love watching her do.

Miriam had a younger brother with Down syndrome. His name was Jessup, after his maternal grandfather, but
the family called him Jessie. Jessie was as much a part of the family as anyone. He was gentle and kind and
caring and tried his best to take care of himself.

Reverend and Mrs. Scott doted on Jessie, just as they doted on Miriam. And Miriam in turn loved the three of
them with all her heart. They all welcome me into their close family circle, and later did the same for my Mom.

Jessie had died of pneumonia shortly after Miriam and I married. At first the Scotts were devastated by his
death. It had been unexpected and sudden. Miriam worried about them and spent several weeks with them in
Wisconsin after Jessie's funeral.

When she came back home, she was quietly resigned to the loss of Jessie but hopeful that her parents would
rebound. And they did after awhile. Reverend Scott decided to retire and to devote himself to volunteer work
with Down syndrome children who had been institutionalized. To our surprise, the Scotts decided to relocate to
Rivermont to be close to their one remaining child. Miriam and I welcomed them with all our heart and insisted
that they stay with us in our tiny bungalow for as long as they wanted.

The Scotts eventually purchased a garden condo in a nearby retirement community, and two years later, my
Mom bought a unit there also. The three of them had hit it off and did a fair amount of socializing together. In
the back of my mind, I sort of hoped that someday Mom would find another man to share her life with but so
far, it hadn't happened.

My Dad had died when I was 14 and Gwen was 12, and Mom had done an amazing job of raising us. After
Dad's death, she took a job as a secretary at a local plumbing supply company, and eventually rose to the
position of office manager. But the title didn't fully reflect the important role she played in the firm. The
company was family owned and the family took in Mom as one of their own, along with Gwen and me. The
company became part of the extended family community that Mom built for us. She knew how the loss of Dad
had hit all of us, and she was determined to make our lives as full and fulfilling as she could. I think in her heart
she knew that nothing could make up for that loss but she gave it the old college try, as the cliche goes.

I have such good memories of my Dad, as do Gwen and Mom. He was an airline pilot, which made him a demi-
god in my eyes and in the eyes of my friends. His alluring career gave me an elevated stature in my circle of
friends. Dad also flew as a hobby and kept a Cessna at a small community airport on the outskirts of
Rivermont. Most weekends, the four of us would go flying. Mom had her license also, and Dad would let her
take the controls while he acted as our tour guide. I've often thought how very fortunate Gwen and I were to
grow up in such an interesting, diverse environment. Our parents encouraged in us an inquisitiveness, a sense of
adventure, a capacity for risk-taking, and a joy at living.

Miriam and I tried to do the same with Celia, and I'm still trying to do that but I lack the creativity my late wife
had. I used to refer to myself as a plodding old work horse, which really got Miriam riled up, or at least as riled
up as it was possible for her to be.

I've had to depend on Mom for the creative part of Celia's growing-up. I'm a whiz at the academic, intellectual
part of it but an absolute flop at the creative part. I oversaw an unusual aspect of Celia's rearing -- I believe in
the male teamwork / male bonding ethic, so I encouraged Celia to play sports, join teams, and compete. She
took to it naturally and is a good athlete. Gymnastics and track were her strong points and after Miriam;s death,
Mom and Celia and I spent many Saturday afternoons at track meets or gymnast competition.

So I‟ve got a good life, not perfect, of course. Without Miriam nothing will ever be the same but I‟ve made my
peace with that.

To finish my thoughts about the time we found out Miriam was pregnant, we found out that she had contracted
a case of a little-known tropical infection that responded quickly to a course of pregnancy-safe antibiotics
prescribed by Dr. Remington. She spent another day in the hospital, moving out of ER to another room. After
Miriam was back home, we‟d spread our good news far and wide and proceeded on the adventure of brining a
child into the world.

Now here I am in a coma but aware of what‟s going on around me but unable to communicate that fact to
anyone and frustrated beyond belief

Leslie

.Mom and I had never mentioned the papers in the safe again. We never discussed what Dad had done. Tehre
was really no reason. He‟d had to live with the tragedy and regret all these years and no amount of discussion
could change something that happened so many years ago. Ever the writer, I wondered how I could use it in
one of my books and then berated myself for thinking that. I could never do that while Dad was still alive.

I was of two minds about the leaving the hospital. Part of me was anxious to go home, to get back to my life. I
missed my writing and I missed my cats. That reminded me to ask Mom how they were doing. It was certainly
handy living so close to my parents – they could drop in and feed the kitties without it being too big an
inconvenience. I had been doing the same for their senior cat, Leila, until she passed away last summer at the
age of 25. Mom and Dad had been so attached to her and had been unable so far to think about adopting another
cat. I knew they probably would but didn‟t push it. Grief and mourning have their own timetable. And that
thought brought me right back to where I didn‟t want to be – thinking about the loss of Matt.
I‟d known most of the details in the online articles about Miriam Talbot‟s death in the train derailment four
yeas ago. My fiancé Matt, died in the same accident. Matt too was a minister on his way to the conference in
Kansas City by train.

I wondered if Miriam Talbot and Matt had known each other. I didn‟t remember him ever mentioning knowing
a woman minister but chances are they were at least acquainted. Rivermont isn‟t all that big, and Matt told me
what a close-knit group the ministers in town were. They had an ecumenical group that met informally every
month or so at various churches. Nothing too organized, just a group of like-minded people getting together to
share ideas and experiences. He‟d told me about the meetings sometimes, saying what an interesting group it
was, with so many diverse personalities serving diverse religious beliefs. He took it as a positive sign that
despite their differing beliefs, they could at least sit around a table and discuss their differences, along with their
common experiences.

The train derailment occurred in February, four years ago. Matt and I were planning to be married in June of
that year. I‟d liked the idea of being married in June, the traditional month for traditional weddings. And our
wedding would be traditional. I had a beautiful white satin dress and a poufy, gorgeous veil with a pearl tiara.

Mom and Dad had insisted on paying for everything and had insisted on making it an event to remember for a
lifetime. When Todd and Beth got married, Mom and Dad had paid for their wedding also. Beth had lost her
parents a few years before she met Todd – her Dad to a heart attack and her Mom to cancer. Mom and Dad had
welcomed Beth into our family and had treated her like a daughter from the beginning.

I‟d wanted to pay for at least part of the wedding but Mom and Dad wouldn‟t hear of it.

Dad had said, “ Sweetie, it would be such a great joy to your Mother and I to do this for you and Matt. We have
more money than we know how to spend and this is a perfect use for our money.”

Dad didn‟t realize that I knew how much money he and Mom gave to Matt‟s church -- I was on the board and
saw the financial records. Matt and I never discussed it because that was confidential information and not
appropriate for us to talk about.

We were of course getting married in Matt‟s church. Matt‟s father, an ordained minister in Iowa, would
perform the ceremony. Todd was to be one of Matt‟s groomsman, and Beth was to be my matron of honor.
Matt‟s brother Jonathan was his best man.

We had planned the reception at the country club Mom and Dad belonged to. They were of course going
overboard with the arrangements for a sit-down dinner for 200. Actually, there were going to be two receptions
– one an afternoon affair with cake and punch in the fellowship hall of Matt‟s church for all the congregation,
and then the hoopla at the country club that evening.

Mom and I were having a ball with the planning. She‟d decided to be my wedding planner, rather than hiring
someone. I teased her about being a secret wannabe wedding planner and she agreed that that was exactly what
she was. She bought stacks of wedding magazines and attended a couple of local bridal shows to collect ideas.

I was perfectly willing to leave the details in her capable hands – especially since she was having so much fun.
One evening, I had dinner with Dad while Mom went to a bridal show, and we took great delight in talking
about Mom‟s wedding planning activities.

“I think she‟s just a little bored with the law right now,” Dad said. “The wedding is the perfect way for her to
use her creative juices. Hopefully, this is a one-time thing and she‟ll come back to the office, raring to go.”
I didn‟t want to burst Dad‟s balloon but I had a feeling Mom might need more than one wedding to use up her
creative juices. She was an energetic go-getter -- we teased her about being just like the Energizer Bunny. One
Christmas Dad bought her a four-foot high Energizer Bunny that she keeps in a corner of their bedroom.

Mom was so organized that by the first of February, most of the wedding plans were in place. Matt was going
to the ministerial conference in Kansas City and had invited me to go along. I was looking forward to the train
trip but at the last minute I went through a wretched bout of flu. I was on the mend when it was time for Matt to
leave and he tried to convince me to come along. Sometimes I wish I had. But I was still feeling a little rocky
and told him I needed another day or so to get back on my feet. He reluctantly agreed, but suggested that if I
felt better in a couple of days, I should hop on a commuter flight to KC and then we could come back on the
train together. That sounded good to me and so we had a plan.

The evening of the day Matt left, I was in downstairs suite of rooms at Mom and Dad's, resting. Yes, I know, I
should have had my own place but Mom and Dad gave me my privacy and you couldn't beat the cost -- it was
free.

I hear d a faint tap on the door, and managed a faint "Come in." I'd been on the edge of sleep and it took me a
moment to figure out what time it was and why I was in bed at 8 o'clock at night.

Mom and Dad came in, and the looks on the faces sent a shiver down my spine. I struggled to sit up in bed and
felt woozy and light-headed. For a moment, I thought I was going to faint, but I lay my head back down on the
pillow and took a deep breath. That seemed to help the light-headedness.

Mom came over and sat on the edge of my bed. Dad stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder. My heart
started to pound when I saw the tears in Mom's eyes. I tried to speak but nothing would come out. Once again, I
sat up, this time with no light-headedness.

"Sweetheart, there's been an accident," Mom's voice was scratchy and a tear slipped down her cheek. "We just
received a phone call from one of the church members who...who was going up to the conference by car."

Again, I tried to speak, to push away her words, to tell her to go away and leave me alone. But again, nothing
would come out.

Mom was crying now and couldn't talk so Dad took over. "There was a train derailment just outside Kansas
City. Several cars went over an embankment and there were, there were about 100 people killed."

I finally found my voice, and said in a very determined tone, "But Matt's okay. Nothing could ever happen to
Matt." I said this with a firmness that belied the screaming agony inside me.

Mom and Dad reached out to me simultaneously, Mom putting her arms around me and Dad putting his arms
around both of us. I jerked back, trying to free myself from their embrace.

A sound I didn't recognize came out of me, a moan mixed with a low scream. "No, no, no." I couldn't stop the
words, and then the tears. A long while later, I got out of bed, Mom and Dad by my side. We went downstairs
to the living room. Dad built a fire and Mom brought me some hot chocolate. I almost asked for a brandy,
despite what I knew the alcohol would do to me. But for a moment I didn't care. I just wanted oblivion, no
matter what the cost. Later, much later, I wondered why Mom hadn't given me brandy. I realized that she must
have known about my drinking problem, although I thought I had covered it up from my parents. And it seemed
they knew about it all along. So much for my great acting and skills of dissembling.

Despite my protests, Mom insisted on calling our family doctor, Doc Shea. He lived in Edelweiss also, just a
few minutes away and readily agreed to come by and see what he could do for me.
When he arrived, I was still stretched out on the sofa, in front of the fireplace, covered neck to toe with one of
the many afghans my grandma had crocheted for us. It was a multi-colored combination of granny squares and
for years afterwards, the sight of it brought back all the pain of that night. One day, I hid it in Mom's attic. She
never mentioned it going missing and I wondered if she knew that I'd hidden it away. Mom is observant and
sharp-eyed and I could only assume she knew very well what I'd done.

Doc Shea sat on a hassock beside where I lay on the sofa. He had done a perfunctory examination, noting that I
was on the down side of a bad case of flu. He took my hand, and held it gently in both of his.

"I am so sorry for your loss, my dear. I'm going to give you a little something to help you sleep. The flu has
weakened your immune system, and we need to make sure you get the rest you need."

He got up and went over to his black medical bag, a well-worn leather repository of magic potions well-
recognized by his patients. He came back with a hypodermic and an alcohol swab. I wanted to refuse the shot, I
wanted to tough this out, but I had no strength to do so. After he gave me the shot, he patted my shoulder, and
once again said how sorry he was.

Mom and Dad walked Doc Shea to the front door, their low voiced-conversation trailing behind them I didn't'
try to hear what they were saying. I didn't care. I didn't care about anything.

So began my long period of mourning. Long, indeed, because I could easily say it continued to this day, four
years after Matt died in the train wreck.

Of course, I went through all the well-known stages of grief, plus a few stages that I think were original to me.
Mom, bless her heart, took care of canceling the wedding arrangements. But there was one task that I insisted
on doing. Mom tried to talk me out of it and even called in Dad and Todd for reinforcement. She was convinced
that getting rid of my wedding dress would send me over the edge. But somehow it was important to me that I
handle the disposition of my wedding dress. I thought about it for awhile, considering the various options. I
could actually destroy the dress -- burn it in a bonfire in the back yard, for example. But it was such a beautiful
dress and I loved it so much I couldn't bear to think of it going up in flames.

I could put in one of the local consignment shops and then donate any money I received for its sale to charity.

I could find some deserving young woman and give the dress to her and wish her well on her new life.

I think the option I finally settled on horrified Mom. By the way, it was an incredibly expensive dress. I'd fallen
in love with it at first sight and Mom insisted that we buy it, despite its priciness.

I'd decided to donate the dress to the nearby Goodwill store. And I was going to take it there myself. I never did
figure out why I was so dead set on doing this but at that time of devastating grief, all I could do was go with
the flow.

So one morning, I set off to Goodwill, the wedding dress taking up almost the whole back seat. At the store, I
struggled getting the dress out of my car. One of the attendants in the donation area, a young black man with
dreadlocks, came over to help me. I asked him if I could talk with whomever was in charge of cataloging
donations. He smiled and went off in search of someone, leaving the dress hanging on portable rolling closet in
the donation area. In a few moments, he was back, still smiling, a tall, slender black woman in tow. She was
dressed in expensive-looking tapered jeans and wore a black blazer over a white silk blouse. Her hair was short
and curly, and she had eyeglasses pushed up past her forehead, perching on top of her head. In one arm, she
held a clipboard, and in the other hand was a cell phone.

She came up to me and stretched out her hand, saying "Good morning. I'm Barbara Washington. How may I
help you?"
I shook her hand and said "Good morning." in turn. I nodded in the direction of the portable closet where my
wedding dress hung in solitary splendor. "I'd like to donate my -- that wedding dress but I wanted to let yo
know that it's a very expensive dress and you could probably get a fairly good price for it."

Barbara Washington walked over to the dress and examined it, slowly and carefully. She looked over at me and
then turned back to the dress, examining it more closely. Finally, she came back to where I stood, and said,
"Are you sure you want to give this dress to us? You might be better served putting it with a consignment
shop."

I shook my head slowly as I answered, "I'd like it to benefit someone, someone who could wear it on the
happiest day of her life."

Barbara nodded and said, "It would certainly add to the happiness of any bride's day." She was silent for a
moment, looking over at the dress, then at me, then back at the dress. Finally, she said, "I have an idea. Do you
have a moment to come into my office?"

I said yes and followed her up the stairs into the building. She led me down a hallway overflowing with bins of
contributed articles. At the end of the hall, she opened a door and motioned me into a small, windowless office.

I looked around the office, which was surprisingly well-decorated, with donated items I was sure. There was
broad wooden desk, with a high-backed desk chair behind it. Two comfortable-looking padded armchairs sat in
front of the desk. A couple of real-liking artificial flower arrangements sat on end tables. On the all were
reproductions of French masterpieces. All in all, it was quite a space.

Barbara Washington gestured me to sit in one of the two armchairs and she took the other one.

I grinned at her and said, "Wow, what an office!"

She grinned in response, and said" I agree. I inherited it from the previous manager but I wouldn't change a
thing. This is one of the perks of taking in donations." She patted her jeans, and added, "these are another of the
perks -- I bought them the moment they came in 0 four bucks for a $90 pair of designer jeans -- you can't beat
that!"

Barbara said to me,"May I ask your name? At least your first name? I don't know what to call you --"

"I'm sorry. I should have introduced myself. I'm Leslie Davis." I hesitated, then plunged on. "The dress is mine.
I was supposed to be married in June but my fiancé was killed in a train crash. I just don't want the dress to go
to waste. It's such a special dress and I want someone to have the joy of wearing it."

Barbara was silent for just a moment, then said, "I'm so sorry for your loss." I could hear the feeling in her tone
and saw the glisten of her eyes. I thought that she must have lost someone close to her to react so strongly to a
stranger's loss.

"Now, tell me your idea," I said briskly, to get us past the emotion of the moment.

"Certainly," Barbara answered. "First, let me tell you who I am and what I do here. I'm actually an employee of
the Rivermont city government. I do public relations and special events in the business development division.
I'm on loan for a year to Goodwill to provide some management and public relations expertise. My job is to get
things in order here, and train the people to continue on with the changes we're implementing. I'm halfway
through my year, and it's been an absolute blast. The people are great, and I feel like I'm able to make a
contribution."
I nodded and smiled as Barbara spoke. She had a natural charm that drew you in, that made you want to hear
her story.
“This is my second assignment like this. The first one was with the Rivermont Boys and Girls Club. It was
quite a challenge because nothing had been done in the way of fund raising or special events in over a year.
This Goodwill assignment is a piece of cake compared to that. Anyway, that will give you an idea of my
background and experience. Now let‟s get to my idea. We‟ve been looking for a special event that will garner
us some free publicity and exposure. I think your wedding dress could be that and more – I think it could be a
major fundraiser for us.”

Barbara got up and started pacing the small office. On one of her passes around the desk, she reached over and
picked up a yellow legal pad and a pen and started making notes as she talked.

“I‟m thinking we could do one of two things – we could either auction off the dress at a major dinner dance or
we could hold a raffle. Either one would raise a great deal of money and create a lot of awareness about what
Goodwill is all about.”

“Barbara,” I began to speak hesitantly. “I would need to have this be an anonymous donation. I couldn‟t have
my name connected with it.”

Barbara nodded and sat back down at her desk. “I completely understand that. We certainly would keep your
name out of it.” She paused, then continued in a soft, gentle tone. “I knew Matt. He served on the board of the
Rivermont Boys and Girls Club. I‟m so sorry for your loss. It was a loss to the community. He was a wonderful
man and I would imagine he was a wonderful minister.”

I nodded but couldn‟t say anything because of the lump that had arisen in my throat.

Barbara put down the legal pad, then changed the subject. “I think we should have an auction of specialty items
with the wedding dress as the piece de resistance or grand finale. Would you be willing to work on a planning
committee for the event?”

My knee-jerk reaction was to immediately say no but I managed to hold my tongue long enough to think it
through and then to answer, “Would it be all right if I thought about it and got back to you in a day or two?”

Barbara answered, ”Of course. Please take as long as you need.”

I left a few minutes, later with Barbara‟s business card clutched tightly in my hand. I wasn‟t sure what I thought
or felt about what had just transpired. I sat in my car outside the Goodwill store, thinking. I wasn‟t sure what I
wanted to do. I had really liked Barbara Washington and I thought working with her on an event-planning
committee might be just the thing to help get my mind occupied on something other than Matt‟s death. My
event-planing experience was practically non-existent so this might be an opportunity to learn something new.
Then I had an idea that I thought was brilliant. This would be a perfect thing to get Mom involved in. She was a
super event planner. Look at what she‟d accomplished for the wedding that didn‟t take place.

Sitting there in the Goodwill parking lot, I got out my cell phone and called Mom on hers. When she answered,
I asked as I often jokingly do, “Where are you and what are you doing?” That demanding always evoked a
laugh on Mom‟s part and once again she came through. “I‟m at home working on the computer. Back at you.”

“I‟m sitting in the Goodwill parking lot, and I have a proposition for you.” I waited for her response, knowing it
would be a funny one.

“No, I did not donate your father to Goodwill. That must be his lookalike you‟re seeing there.”
“Ha, ha, Mom. Now get serious. I have a proposition for you.” I proceeded to tell her about taking my wedding
dress to Goodwill and meeting Barbara Wshington.


She interrupted me once to say, “Oh, baby, I‟m sorry you‟re trying to donate your wedding dress all by
yourself. If I‟d known, I could have done it for you, or at least come with you.”

“Not to worry, Mom. I‟m okay. But let me tell you about the idea.”

I told her about Barbara Washington‟s desire to make the wedding dress into a big event, and her asking me to
help in planning the event.

“I told Barbara that I‟d think about it and get back to her. So here I am, sitting in the car thinking about it, and I
thought about the super job you did on..” – I must admit my voice broke a bit here before I was able to
continue.

“You did such a super job planning Matt‟s and my wedding, and I thought you might be interested in working
with me and Barbara Washing on this.”

There was no response and I asked, “Mom, are you still there?”

“Yes, sweetie,” came her answer. “I‟m just thinking about it. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

I knew what she meant. She was afraid the whole thing would upset me too much, but I hurried to reassure her.

“I actually think it might be good for me – might get me out of this funk that I can‟t seem to shake.”

Evidently that short sentence was enough to help Mom make up her mind.

“I‟m in, baby girl. What‟s our game plan?”

“I‟ll get back to you. I‟m going to go in and tell Barbara Washington that we‟re both interested in helping with
whatever special event she wants to stage.”

And I did just that. Needless to say, Barbara was thrilled at our offer of help. It turns out that she and Mom had
served together on a fund raising committee several years ago. Barbara was delighted with the prospect of help
from us and set about scheduling a time when the three of us could get together.

The bottom line is that we raised more than $10,000 for Goodwill at the event. The dress was purchased by one
of the movers and shakers in the community, who in turn gave it to his maid to wear at her wedding. All in all,
it was a happy ending for a dress that could have ended up being a tragic reminder to me of all that I‟d lost.

ResidenceInn
I will say that one positive thing came out of the grief and that's my writing career. For a long while, writing
was the only thing I could do. I couldn't practice law; in fact, I couldn't even step foot in the law office for over
a year. And that year mark was the time when I moved into a place of my own, one of the condos here in
Edelweiss.

I love Mom and Dad dearly but I couldn't stand their hovering concern and they couldn't stand my grief. So our
compromise was for me to move to the two-bedroom condo that Mom and Dad had bought as an investment
and as a possible retirement piede a terre or stopping off point for the traveling they planned on doing.
It was two blocks away from Mom and Dad's house, close enough to walk, but far enough away that they
couldn't keep an eye on me. They still popped in more often that I liked but I understood and didn't put up a
fuss about it.

I'd started writing almost obsessively shortly after we buried Matt. Then, once I'd moved to the condo, I wrote
upwards of 12 hours a day. So you can imagine what my productivity was. The first year's worth of work was
mainly practice for what came next. I'd always been prolific and facile in my writing. The place where I fell
down was in the plotting and planning.

I'd get a nifty idea for a mystery, start writing like a house afire, churn out thousands of words, be excited about
what I was doing. Then I'd start struggling, not sure where the story was going. I'd keep on plugging away,
more intent on achieving my daily word count goal than on figuring out my story. Eventually, it would all peter
out. I'd be lost, not know what to write, and then just give up.

I had several manuscripts that had followed that pattern. I had managed to complete four books but none of
them were very good and I know that all too well. The plots were weak and farfetched. The characters were
two-dimensional and uninteresting, to put them in the kindest light.

And yet, despite my struggles and failures, I still had the drive to write, a passion inside me that wouldn't turn
loose of me, wouldn't let me give up.

For years, I'd done writing classes and workshops. I'd even toyed with the idea of going back to school to get a
master's of fine arts. I hadn't done that yet but it was a still a possibility.

The fascinating thing was the constant narrative in my head. My overactive mind was always writing fiction.
My thoughts were arranged in fiction couplets. I'd never shared my quirky mind with anyone until Matt came
along. He'd laughed long and hard at my description of how my mind worked. He'd hugged me, looked in my
eyes, and said, "Well, sweets, my mind works in sermons. All my thoughts are like sermons. So your mind
works more interestingly than mine."

I'd loved that about Matt -- the way he could always make me feel so good about myself. I wasn't sure I truly
believed him when he said his mind worked in sermons but telling me that was so like him.

I kept all my failed manuscripts in an old trunk that had belonged to my grandmother. She said it had been
Mom's toybox when she was a little girl and that made it extra special to me. I also kept track of how many
words I'd written over the years. I'm sort of a database junkie -- I learned Microsoft Access for fun and
entertainment, if that's any indication of my nerdiness. I got really good with Access and ended up creating a
slick new time-tracking and billing system for Mom and Dad's law office. Dad had insisted on copyrighting the
program I developed, and he always claimed he was going to market it and make a fortune. So far he'd done
diddly with it and that was just fine with me.

So once I moved to the condo, I set up one of the bedrooms as a writing office and put up a combination of cork
board and white board walls to use as space for planning and plotting. And it worked. I hadn't realized what a
visual person I am. I needed to see my story and my people and the happenings in their lives. Putting up post-it
notes and pictures and maps and swatches of fabric put my book into a place where I could see it and feel it and
understand it. And so began the ride of my life, finally figuring out what I needed to write the way I wanted to
write, to achieve what I wanted to achieve, what I'd wanted to achieve. Once I'd figured out how to do what I
needed to do, the sky was the limit. Since I was a little girl, I'd had the desire to write and over the years, I'd
written hundreds of thousands of words. But I'd been unable to direct those words in the proper way. I couldn't
corral them and organize them and massage and manipulate them into what I wanted them to be.

I decided to start from square one with my writing. The first step obviously was getting organized. I would set
up a writing database using Microsoft Access. I already had the beginnings of a database, with my tracking of
word count and dates started and stopped on novels in progress or completed. I had toyed with setting up
character databases, name files, data on locations and occupations, etc. but never got very far.

It was as though in the past I was acting as my own worst enemy, putting up deliberate roadblocks to keep me
from succeeding at writing. I had no idea why I would do such a thing and decided to leave that unexplored and
get on with something positive. I checked some writing books out of the library and started going through them
for the writing guidelines I needed. One book covered plotting and I practically typed that book verbatim into
my writing database. Its arc was the fast start, get 'em hooked approach, followed by a quiet period that lulled
the reader, then pounced on the reader with another shocker happening. The whole idea of plotting was very
systematic and consistent.

I settled on what the book called the roller coaster model -- I liked the name and I liked the effect the name
evoked. It was the fast start model, followed by the lull, then a crisis and a reveal, followed by another crisis
and another reveal. Then there came the false conclusion, followed by the biggest reveal of all, followed by the
true conclusion / wind-up, followed by an epilogue that tied up all the loose ends. I felt very comfortable with
this model and was eager to get started with it.

I created a plot template that I was to fill out before I started. I also created a character template that I would fill
out for each of my characters. There was also a location template where I would describe each of the locations
in the book. Those three templates were the foundation of my book. I wasn't sure which came first, plot or
character. From my past experience I had always came up with the idea first and then peopled it with
characters. I thought that was probably the way that worked best with the intricacies of my mind and decided to
try to follow that scenario using my templates.

I also used a spreadsheet as a way of organizing my scenes. The idea was I'd start out with scene one, with a
brief description of the action in the scene and the characters who appeared in the scene. Somehow it helped me
to think of the mystery as a screenplay for a movie or TV program -- or actually a soap opera, one of my
favorite forms of entertainment. It was important for me to see the scenes as they unrolled, to visualize the
action, to hear what my characters were saying.

To find an idea, I went back through my stacks of notebooks and notes. I skimmed through my unfinished
novels to see if any of them were worthy of being resurrected. Some of it wasn't half bad and I toyed with the
idea of trying to reuse or recycle some of what I'd already written. But nothing lit that fire in me. I was so eager
to try out my new system but the whole thing hinged on coming up with a killer idea. Killer idea? Like the
elusive killer app in the world of computer software-- searching for that one program that everyone has to have.
So I was searching for that idea that everyone would want to read.

I finally found the idea I was searching for, in all places, in one of the neighborhood throwaway neswpapers
that appeared on my front lawn with semi-annoying regularity. I'd gone out to water the tomato plants growing
in the front of my house and had idly picked up the paper lying in the driveway. The front-page headline caught
my eye and I set the watering can on the porch step and sat down beside it to read the article.

"Woman Returns from Her Worldwide Adventures to Find Her Family Has Disappeared"

Before reading the article, I thought about that headline -- what worldwide adventures had she had? How long
had she been gone? Why did she go? How did she know her family had disappeared.

I reached into my jeans pocket for one of my ubiquitous 3x5 notebooks and pen and started scribbling down all
the questions that were coming to mind. As I wrote, I wondered if I should read the article. It might not be
anything like what I was thinking about, and I ran the risk of messing up the flow of ideas and thoughts. I made
one of those snap decisions that later proves to be so on-target and right. I decided to wait to read the article
until I'd done some more thinking and brainstorming. I'd put it aside on my desk, and when I felt comfortable
about where my story was going, then I'd read it.
But still I forced myself to take it slow and easy and I forbade myself to write one word of narrative unless I
had the full plot skeleton in place. This was a total departure in style and process for me. As I said before, I'd
start writing in a frenzy, on fire with the excitement of my idea. I'd write tens of thousands of words and then
get royally stuck because I had no idea where the book was going. But this way I would have a clear road map
to follow. Part of me was hesitant to embrace this new paradigm of writing for fear I would get bored if I
already knew everything that was going to happen. But the other way wasn't working for me so this was worth
a try.

For this new paradigm, I knew it would be a learning process so I decided to practice on one of my unfinished
novels rather than starting from scratch.

As my guinea pig, I used a novel that I'd abandoned about six months ago when I couldn't figure out where I
was going. I had written about 35,000 words and thought the writing was decent but the plot sucked. The
problem was there was no plot. The characters were interesting, the writing flowed, but nothing was going on. I
just kept writing disconnected scenes and would go off on this tangent and that tangent. One of the ways that I
made myself write was to have a word count goal of 500 words a day. I had to write 500 words a day, no matter
what. And most of the time, I had no idea what to write for those 500 words. So I'd ramble and pad and pretend
I knew where the story was going when actually I hadn't a clue.

So there I sat at my desk, a handful of paper in my hand representing the 35,000 abandoned words. The first
thing I would do would be to make a list of characters. Can you imagine? I didn't even have a list of characters
for the book. That's like the rule you can't ever break and I broke it all the time. In fact, my rule was to break all
the rules so no wonder I couldn't produce a good book, much less even finish one.

So I started my list. I opened up Access and used the character template to enter a name and a description. I
tried to add an age and date of birth but for some of the characters I hadn't thought about that so I left the age
blank. This was, after all, just a practice, not the real thing.

As I created the character list, I was amazed at the number people who showed up in the book. Evidently, when
I didn't know what to write about but still had to reach my 500-word a day goal, I'd just bring in a new
character. Not a good way to have a cohesive story. I began to see the characters that didn't belong. I created a
special field into which I typed „gotta go‟ for the ones who wouldn't have made the cut, had I intended to finish
this book.

Once I had the list of characters, and it was a long list, too long, of course, I worked on the locations template.
As you can see, I was avoiding the plot template and the scenes template because that's where I was having all
my problems. Or maybe I was doing the easy ones first to get warmed up, to get adept at this tracking process
that I was pinning my hopes on.

Let me digress here a bit. As I've mentioned, writing has been my passion and my love since I was a little girl.
But at that time in my life, I'd had no success at it. And it wasn't monetary success or celebrity that I was
looking for. What I wanted was to create a good story that people would enjoy reading. I wanted to enjoy the
process of creating that good story, I wanted to have fun while I was writing, I wanted writing to be a fun
process for me.

I continued working on filling out my database templates. After characters and locations, I attacked timeline.
Normally this would come have after plot and scenes but because I was working with narrative I'd already
written, I could work on the timeline before the plot or the scenes. In the timeline template, I included what
happened and when it happened. I include what characters were involve and where the action took place -- the
location. Eventually, I would be able to reuse this information in the scenes template.
What I was doing was building a tangible infrastructure for my book, something concrete to hang my words on.
Previously, I had been out there flailing around, with no structure or organization or planing. I thought,
erroneously, that I knew how to write fiction just because I'd read so much fiction. False assumption. This is
where a master 's of fine arts in fiction writing would have been immeasurably valuable. I was a self-taught
writer and evidently had not done a good job of teaching myself how to write fiction. In fact, I'd done a pretty
lousy job. I tried not to beat myself up over all the time I'd wasted, not knowing what I was doing but
continuing to trudge on, unsuccessfully.

I hadn't ever learned the basics that writers learn in an MFA program. I made a mental note to remedy my lack
of an MFA in the near future. In the meantime, I had started teaching myself. In addition to the information I
already had, I began to do some research on fiction basics. As I discovered new information, I was amazed at
what I didn't know. I felt foolish, almost naive, for the way I'd assumed I knew what I was doing, that I knew
very well how to write fiction and that I could do it on my own, by myself, without any outside help or advice.
And you can see how far that got me;

I had the feeling that I was finally on the right track, that if I could master this plot thing, this scenes thing, the
timeline thing, the whole organization thing, I would be able to master writing fiction. I began to feel excited
about my writing, something I hadn't felt in an unbelievably long time.

To my surprise, I began to have some ideas about what I could do with the writing I was using as a guinea pig.
It seemed that now I could think of ways out of the plot corner into which I'd backed myself a year or two ago.
It was interesting to observe the workings of my mind. It seemed as though all my mind needed was a firm had,
some discipline and organization, and with those, it became an efficient writing machine.

There were times through the years when my own writing capability and capacity amazed me. I would go back
and read something I'd written and I couldn't believe that I'd done it. It seemed too good, too real, to have come
from me. When I read parts of my writing that were good, I'd feel a thrill of anticipation, of excitement. Then
I'd find myself bewildered by what to do next.

Now, I felt no such bewilderment. I had a plan. I was beginning to have tools. I had confidence in my ability to
carry through on my plan, and to proficiently use the tools I'd discovered or invented or whatever.

I wasn't sure whether to try to finish the novel I was using as the guinea pig in my grand experiment or whether
to start with a new book. I decided to keep on with my analysis and maybe the answer would come to me. One
night, as I was taking one of my regular walks through Edelweiss, an idea came to me. It was a book about a
young man who became a minister and his best friend from childhood, who became a criminal. I would tell the
parallel stories of their lives and then the time they came together again when they were grown men.

I knew that Matt would be my model for the minister but I wasn't sure where to find the criminal. Then I
remembered one of my first clients at the law firm, shortly after I passed the bar. I had been asked by my
parents to represent a petty criminal, who had a long rap sheet of bounced checks, stolen credit cards, minor
scams involving senior citizens. He'd been a charmer. He'd certainly charmed me, and I thought he might have
even gotten to Mom, although she's savvier than I am. His latest run-in with the law had been a bit more
elaborate than usual. He'd been passing himself off as an expert in old coins. He'd conned several elderly
victims out of what turned out to be relatively worthless coins. But nonetheless, they were pressing charges,
even though the value of what was taken from them was minimal. I think to them it was the principle of the
thing. Terry was caught between a rock and a hard place when it came to his plea. He wanted to plead not guilty
but he'd been caught red-handed in a motel room with the coins in hand by two police officers who'd been sent
there by one of the senior citizens who had been bilked.

His name was Terry Cummings -- Terrence, actually, but he said no one had ever called him that except for his
maternal grandmother. I would use Terry as the model for the so-called bad guy in my book. The two parallel
lives apporach reminded of a movie that starred Leo DiCaprio and Matt Damon -- The Departed.
The Matt part of the book would be a snap. But I was going to have to work for the Terry part. I debated
whether to start with the easy part and then move to the hard part or vice versa. That seemed the logical
approach -- use the easy part to get my feet wet, so to speak, and then as I became more adept at my subject, to
move on to the part that was really a stretch for me.

In so many ways, I came from a privileged, protected background. There had been times growing up when I
wished for just a touch of angst or struggle in my life but it wasn't to be. At least not until I lost the love of my
life. That result in a shitload -- pardon my French --of angst and struggle.

For Terry's childhood, I had to reach back and try to remember some of the less-privileged kids who attended
the same school I did. I didn't like this digging into the lives of the less fortunate. It made me want to cry so I let
myself sob a bit before continuing on with making notes and jotting down ideas. Yes, I was in the midst of
massive note-making, a brainstorming of ideas that I would eventually type into the database I was going to
develop for my characters and plot and scenes.

I think the geeky part of me was more excited about creating the database rather than the writing part. I wanted
it to be a data entry type database with screens that presented a look at the wholeness of the characters and plot
lines. I decided I would set up a reusable template for a writing database and then make a copy of it for the
book I was going to write.

The database would have five main components: characters, locations, plot line, scenes and timeline. I thought
there would also be a section for narrative but I hadn't thought that one through yet.

I was having fun doing a split personality thing. One part of my time was spent brainstorming ideas and plots
and characters for the novel. The other, geeky part, was consumed with ideas on how to develop a database that
would track and organize my ideas and that would make the writing a little easier and more manageable.
Somehow I had the idea that the database and all it the advantages it offered would make my writing life easier,
more enjoyable, not so much of a dreaded, required struggle. I was looking forward to enjoying writing rather
than avoiding it. All my life I'd felt a passion for writing, a drive to write, but had dreaded doing it because it
was so hard and draining for me.

Part of me knew that my renewed dedication, almost an obsession, with my writing was a way of sublimating
my grief over Matt's death. It could be worse, a lot worse. At least I hadn't turned to drugs or alcohol.

I would still be plugging away at the law office, waiting for some enterprising editor to discover me. I felt very
grateful for this new period in my life and I vowed to give it my best effort.

Finally I tackled the plot, which for me was the hardest part about writing and the part that had been preventing
me from writing what I knew I was capable of writing.

I used my existing writing to do a bare-bones plot outline, knowing I'd be revising it time and time again, but at
least I'd have something started, something I could revise. I was shocked to find out that plotting was a lot of
fun.

It was a case of "lying for fun and profit." I began inventing wilder and wilder scenarios. It was almost as
though I'd abandoned rational thinking and was letting the sky be the limit.

It took another year to perfect the first book I was ready to try to sell. It only took a month to sell it. Mom had a
friend, her college roommate, who was a literary agent in Boston. At my request, Mom sent her my novel, and
she was on the phone to me one day after she received it. She was an exuberant woman who made no attempt to
hold back her excitement over what I had written. A month later she had sold the book at an auction and my
career was launched. The book became a minor best seller, and the movie rights brought in more money than
the book had. I was a fledgling celebrity, and set off on a few Midwest book tours, which turned out to be
somewhat grueling bouts of fun. I enjoyed them, I truly did, especially all the new people I met and the new
cities I got to visit.

During one of the tours, I met a fascinating woman in St. Louis, another author also on tour, visiting most of the
same bookstores where I was scheduled to speak. Her name was Lisa Adams and she had written a memoir
about her experiences in building a house and how what she did and what she learned changed her outlook on
life.

I bought her book and got her to sign it and she did the same for me. She was older than I by about 20 years,
and this was her first book. She said she‟d been writing most of her life but that this was the first time she had
completed a book that she felt good about. I told her I‟d had the much the same experience.

It turned out that we were going to the same bookstore for our next speaking engagements. Mine was scheduled
for 3 p.m. and hers was at 5.

Lisa had suggested, “Why don‟t we have a bite of lunch together before your reading? I „d love to hear yours.”

I readily agreed. Already, after just a few minutes, I liked this woman and wanted to get to know her. We
decided to combine resources so we dismissed the driver assigned to Lisa and just used just mine. At Lisa‟s
suggestion, we picked up sandwiches at a deli next door to the bookstore and had the driver take us to a park
near our next speaking engagement. We talked non-stop for the next three hours. It was amazing. We had so
much in common, despite the differences in our ages and the lives we'd lived. She‟d told me the outline of her
life‟s story and I‟d reciprocated.

Lisa had been married and divorced twice. She had two daughters in their forties who lived close to Lisa‟s
home on an island outside Seattle. She‟d had an interesting life, moving around the country at different jobs.
Her career field was health care. She‟d held several high-powered management positions but had opted out of
that lifestyle. For awhile she'd lived on a farm in the Midwest with a boyfriend. When that relationship ended,
she's once again changed direction and was now a grant writer for a health care organization that served low-
income families.

Lisa told me, “I took a major pay cut to take this job but it‟s well worth it. I feel as though I‟m doing something
good, that I‟m helping people who need my help. The first time we were awarded a grant based on one of my
proposals, I saw what impact my work could have. We‟d been trying to get funding for an Alzheimer‟s care
unit, and my proposal brought in enough money to get it started. I visited the unit shortly after it opened, and it
was so heart-warming to see the treatment being give to people who before this had been left abandoned and
untreated in a state facility.”

I found myself telling her about Matt and his death, something I hardly ever did. I‟m a private person and I
don‟t share my life events and emotions. But Lisa touched a chord in me, and I felt comfortable sharing my
story with her.

Lisa sat in the front row for my reading, and I in turn then stayed for hers, although I sat at the back of the room
– I‟m not a front row person.

Lisa was finished with book signing a little after seven. And spent a few more minutes chatting with the last
few attendees.

“How about dinner or have you had enough of my company?” I asked her. I felt that I wasn‟t ready quite yet to
have this woman walk out of my life.

"Never," Lisa said with a smile. "Any suggestions about where we should go for dinner?"
I thought for a moment, not as familiar with this part of St. Louis. "I'll ask the bookstore manager where she
would recommend we have dinner." I went in search of the manager and found her in the employee lunch room,
getting ready to leave for the evening. I asked about good restaurants and rather than recommending one, she
did the most amazing thing. She invited Lisa and me back to her home for dinner.

I thanked her for her hospitality but turned down the invitation, saying it would be too much of an imposition

"Nonsense," she'd said. "My husband loves to cook and I'll give him a jingle and tell him there will be two
more for him to dazzle with his skills."

She absolutely wouldn't take no for an answer, and I was forced to give in. We went back to where Lisa was
waiting and explained what the plan was.

Lisa began to laugh, surprised at this demonstration of Midwest hospitality. The three of us chatted for a couple
of minutes.

The bookstore manager's name was Megan Carter but she insisted we call her Megan. She was somewhere in
her fifties, I thought. I'm a rotten judge of ages, and sometimes I'm off by as much as 20 years, if you can
believe it.

Megan called her husband to give him a heads-up about their unexpected dinner guests, then walked out to the
limo with Lisa and me to give our driver directions to her home. He seemed to understand exactly where she
lived, but he still followed closely behind her.

She lived in a beautiful old home on Lindell in midtown St. Louis. It was one of the elegant mansions from the
turn of the 19th century. I noticed that Megan drove a long black Mercedes-Benz sedan, and I began to think
that her bookstore salary must not be her only source of income.

Megan pulled into the driveway and drove to the back of the house. The driver pulled into the circular drive in
from of the house. He got out came around to open first my door, and then Lisa's door. He gave me his business
card with his cell phone number and told me just to call him when we were ready to go back to our hotels.

Megan came through the front door and down the broad stone steps that spanned the front of the house. The
limo driver took off and the three of us stood there for a moment, not speaking.

I decided to thank Megan again. "You can't imagine what a delight this is," I said to her. “No matter what your
husband is preparing for dinner, it will beat whatever we could have found. I know how tired I am of restaurant
food and I imagine Lisa is feeling much the same way."

Megan ushered us in to her home, and I was bowled over by the interior. The entrance foyer was two stories or
more, with a glistening glass chandelier hanging down from a beveled ceiling. The foyer itself was larger than
the living room in my condo -- or for that matter, than the living room in Mom's and Dad's spacious home.
Comfortable-looking upholstered chairs and love seats sat along the wall, interspersed with end tables.

Megan grinned at us and said, “Come on, I want to introduce you to my husband.”

As we walked down the hall, I caught glimpses of the living room on one side and the dining room on the other.
Both were huge rooms, and they seemed to be filled with beautiful antique furniture. We were in the presence
of true wealth here, I thought.

Megan led us into the kitchen to meet her husband, who had a formerly white apron wrapped around his waist.
"Please say hello to my wonderful husband, Tom, chef extraordinaire."

Tom shook hands first with Lisa and then with me. I thought he looked younger than Megan by a good 10 years
but since I can't judge ages, I let it go. Whatever age he was, he was certainly a handsome devil. Tall, slender,
tanned, with dark blond hair. He wore dark-rimmed glasses so I couldn't get a good look at his eyes but I would
have bet good money that they were green.

Megan gave Tom a quick bio of each of us, and I noticed how intently he listened, all the while, chopping and
stirring and tasting. It was an amazing performance of multi-tasking. Every once in awhile as Megan talked, I
sneaked a glance at Lisa to see if she was reacting the same way I was, and it was obvious she was. I hoped
we'd have a private moment later on this evening to compare notes.

"I'll take these lovely ladies on a tour of our house, while you finish up dinner, if that's all right, sweetheart."
Megan gave Tom a peck on the cheek, and he reciprocated with a hug. I was dying to know their story and
wondered how I could find out how they'd hooked up and all the background behind that hooking up.

Megan led us through room and after room of exquisite furniture and decor. By the time we circled back to the
kitchen, I was pretty sure my head was going to explode from such an elegant home.

Back in the kitchen, it appeared that Tom the magnificent was putting the finishing touches on what appeared to
be a pasta dish that smelled awesome.

Megan offered each of us a glass of red wine but I declined and so did Lisa. Instead, we each had a glass of
sparkling water served in crystal water goblets so thin I was afraid I would break mine if I held it too tightly.
Megan and Tom had wine and Megan put out a tray of cheese and wafer-thin crackers. Those Lisa and I
attacked hungrily, accompanied by laughter from Megan and Tom at our appetites.

"Save room for my pasta al flore," Tom insisted. "You're going to love it. I created it for Megan as a birthday
present a few years ago, and it's become her favorite."

Wow, I thought. A drop-dead gorgeous man creating a special recipe for you -- you couldn't get much more
special than that. I was beginning to feel a smidgen of envy for what Megan had right here in her own kitchen,
and I immediately extinguished the fire of jealously starting to burn in my heart. Jealousy was a totally useless
emotion, and I wanted no part of it.

Dinner was magnificent but the dinner table conversation was even better. Lisa had a talent for drawing out
people. I later learned that at one time, she'd been a reporter for a small town weekly newspaper. She had then
moved into a position as a feature writer on a daily newspaper in an Iowa city that I've forgotten the name of.
Her questions and comments were in no way intrusive. She gently encouraged Megan to confide in her. When I
figured out what she was doing and how she was doing it, I watched and listened in fascination.

Megan easily offered up her life story, including her age, which was 60. I hadn't been too far wrong. Megan had
lived all over the world. She'd been born in St. Louis, and had only moved back to the city a few years ago. As
a child, her family had traveled extensively. She came from old St. Louis money, and this lovely home in which
we now sat had been the family mansion in the city. They'd also had a summer home out in the suburbs on a
lake, but Megan said that had been sold to developers long ago for what amounted to a sizeable fortune --
money the family turned over to the family's charitable foundation.

Megan had been married twice before Tom but didn't dwell on the details, in deference to her current husband, I
assumed. She had a son who lived in California and a daughter who lived in Provo, Utah, and who was, yes, a
Mormon.
"My passion has always been books," Megan told us. "From the time I learned to read, my nose was buried in a
book. My parents were much the same way. As child, I used to play bookstore, and I guess that's how I ended
up owning a bookstore all these years later."

So much for my powers of observation. I'd thought she was hired help and here she was the owner.

As I listened to Megan's life story, I had the feeling she was leaving out huge chunks, probably the most
interesting parts, but also the parts that are not easily shared with strangers. I thought to myself that if it were
just Lisa and Megan sitting here at the dining room table, Lisa would have the whole story out of her in no
time.

After awhile, Lisa shifted her attention to Tom and began a gentle interrogation of him. But Tom had evidently
caught on to Lisa's technique the same way I had, and he seemed determined to thwart her best efforts to dig
out his life story.

Then, with a smile and a chuckle, after several minutes of sparring and dodging, Tom said, "Okay, Ms. Adams,
I'll give you an A+ for effort. You are truly a skilled interrogator., And because you're so adept and because you
did such a good job on my precious Megan, I'll give you the goods."

And so Tom began his saga. And a saga it was. Tom was 45, 15 years younger than his wife. But neither Tom
nor Megan seemed to place any importance on the age difference. Tom was a native Californian. He'd been
born in San Diego and he and his rather large family -- 6 kids, 2 parents and 2 grandmothers, had moved up the
coast to northern California, to a small town that neither Lisa nor I had ever heard of. He told of an idyllic
childhood in a coastal town that was off the tourist radar. His mother was a writer of children's books, and his
father was a carpenter.

"Actually," Tom said, "my Dad was a master cabinetmaker, which is what they used to call craftsmen who built
furniture." He waved his arm toward a towering china cabinet that occupied half a wall in the dining room
where we sat, and said, "My Dad made that 40 years ago for my Mom. When they passed away, it came to me
and I‟ve taken it with me wherever I moved." He stopped for a moment to pour Lisa and Megan, but not
himself, a glass of wine. At the beginning of the dinner, I'd told him I didn't drink, and he let that go without a
word.

He stood and went over to the sideboard where a silver coffee service gleamed. He asked if I wanted another
cup, and I said yes. He poured two cups, put them on a small silver serving tray, added the cream and sugar
serving dishes, then brought the tray over to where I sat at one end of the long oak dining table.

He went to his seat, across from Lisa and cattycorner to Megan.

"Now where was I," he asked, although I thought he probably knew exactly where he was. None of us
answered, and he continued, "Ah, yes. Dad was a carpenter. He taught me the trade, fully expecting me to
follow in his footsteps and work side by side with him. But I had other ideas. I was hungry to see the world and
find out who I was. And what better place to do that than in the military. So I joined the Army, much to the
despair of Mom and Dad. They were peace-loving folks and never did understand our country's fascination with
war. However, at the time, there was no war raging anywhere, a somewhat unusual circumstance. So I used that
fact to allay Mom‟s and Dad‟s fears for me."

He finished his coffee, and smiled over at Megan. "Now comes the interesting part but I can't tell you most of
it."

He grinned at Lisa, and I thought what a tease he was. He was being deliberately mysterious and secretive,
probably to get a reaction out of Lisa. But that didn't happen. I think Tom had met his match in her.
Tom continued his story. " During the first few months after basic training, I stayed at Fort Leonard Wood -- "
he paused, looking around at us to see if we knew where that was. Megan and I knew that it was in the middle
of Missouri but Lisa shook her head and Tom explained.

"Fort Leonard Wood is the largest basic training facilities in the Midwest. It turns out that it also houses one of
the Army intelligence training units. I'd undergone quite a bit of testing, psychological and academic, during
those first months after basic training. Seems they thought they'd identified an aptitude for intelligence work in
me, based on those tests.

"When they approached me about seeing if intelligence work appealed to me, I turned them down flat. I
explained that I had joined the Army to see the world, not to be a spy and hide out in secret places."

At that point in Tom's story, Megan gently interrupted him to ask him to pause a minute until she came back
with the dessert tray. I was impressed by his wife's fascination with a story she had to know by heart. I liked the
fact that she liked listening to her husband tell stories.

Megan came through the swinging door carrying a tray filled with an assortment of desserts – cookies,
brownies, slivers of cheesecake, pecan pie tartlets, and chocolate cake with chocolate nut icing. There was some
oohing and ahhing as Lisa and I stared at the goodies and made our choices.


As I took a piece of cheesecake, I said to Tom and Megan, “This has been an amazing meal,” and Lisa echoed
my praise.

Megan said, “Food is one of our main hobbies, right up there with the bookstore. When Tom finishes the story
of his life and how we met, you‟ll see how it all fits together and what an important place food plays in the
scheme of things for us.”

Tom had polished off one of the cheesecake slivers, then proceeded with his story. “Of course, the Army didn‟t
give up on getting me into intelligence work. They just went ahead and sent me to classes and courses and
workshops that had an intelligence component. They kept me stationed at Leonard Wood way longer than
usual. I actually started enjoying the intelligence classes and was very much their willing victim. I finally
officially capitulated and told them I was ready for an assignment. But they had other ideas. They reassigned
me to a little-known Army base outside Chicago and enrolled me in a world-renowned culinary school in the
city. Every weekday morning I commuted from Fort Lexington to downtown Chicago for classes. And I must
admit, I began to love learning to cook. And I must also admit, that I was a very good student and became quite
the chef.

“Two years had gone by now, and all I‟d done was learn and train and cook. I was ready for a real assignment
and kept whining to anyone who would listen that I wanted something real, something meaningful to do.
Finally, I got my assignment, the first of a number of postings throughout the world. I became an embassy chef,
and my responsibility, besides preparing top-notch meals for the ambassador and his or her guests, was to keep
my eyes and ears open and to schmooze with visiting dignitaries in the guise of receiving their praise for this
dish or that. I did a lot of personal serving of small dinner parties, and overheard an amazing amount of
sensitive discussions. I did this for years, until I was about 30. I‟d fulfilled my desire to see the world many
times over."

Tom stopped talking to take a long drink of ice water, wink at his wife, and reach across the table to squeeze
her hand.

“Then came a fateful dinner party in the French embassy. It was a fairly new posting for me, and one,
unfortunately that I wasn‟t enjoying very much. The French, suffice it to say, are a difficult people. And the
kitchen staff at the embassy were all French except for me. They resented an American chef and went out of
their way to make my life difficult.

“It was a dinner for six, and I did much of the food preparation and serving in a small but elegant dining room
that was reserved for special guests and special discussions. The room was bugged, as was most of the
embassy, but with the latest in video and audio recording equipment. One of the guests at the dinner was an oil
sheik from some unpronounceable sheikdom in the Middle East. His date or dinner companion was none other
than the delightfully charming, elegantly beautiful Megan Carter.”

I looked over at Megan and was surprised to see that she was blushing. She shook her head at him and I saw
that her love for her husband was shining in her eyes.

Megan spoke up with “Let me explain what I as doing there, please. It isn‟t as bad as it sounds. I wasn‟t an oil
sheik groupie.”

Lisa and I laughed at that comment, as did Tom. “Well, tell us,” Lisa insisted. “We‟re dying to find out what
you were doing at the French embassy, at a small, intimate dinner party, with an oil sheik.”

Megan glanced at Tom, then said, “It‟s Tom‟s story. I don‟t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense, my darling wife,” Tom said teasingly. “Be my guest, and share your delightful story with our
guests.”

“Well, actually, I was there on a little spying mission of my own. Oh, nothing like what Tom was doing. It was
a favor for a friend. I‟d just divorced my second husband and was sort of at loose ends. I‟d started out on a
cruise with a group of girlfriends – I say girlfriends but we were all in our forties and fifties. Anyway, the oil
sheik was the brother of the husband of one of my friends. She wanted the scoop on what was going on in the
family business but wasn‟t able to get any answers out of her husband. So she wanted me to do some
undercover work to see what I could find out.”

At Lisa‟s and my laughs, Megan looked at us quizzically and then laughed herself. “Not that kind of
undercover work. This was very much above the covers.” She said that last sentence with a wide, overdone
grin, and once again, Lisa and I laughed.

“So,” Megan continued, “my assignment was to get info on what was up with the family business for my
friend. She told me she was thinking of her future and was worried that her husband was squirreling away the
family assets where she wouldn‟t be able to find them. At the time, I thought „Why was she even staying with
this creep if he was indeed trying to hide his money from her?‟”

Megan drained her wineglass, and Tom reached over and filled it once again.

Megan continued. “Anyway, the oil sheik overindulged in alcohol that evening, a no-no for him because of his
supposed religion but something he evidently did whenever possible. He told me more than I wanted to know
about his family, his extended family, including my friend, his mistresses, yes, plural, and of course, his family
business. It turned out that my friend‟s suspicions were well founded. Her husband had transferred huge sums
out of their marital accounts and into single accounts in foreign banks known for their secrecy and discretion.

“He eventually passed out and Tom was one of the embassy staff corralled into putting him in a guest room to
let him sleep it off. After the oil sheik was properly disposed of, Tom invited me back to the kitchen for coffee
and dessert. I couldn‟t resist this charming man who was a magnificent chef, and we‟ve been together ever
since.
“That first night I met him, I knew there was something puzzling about Tom. He didn‟t seem like your
stereotypical chef but I couldn‟t put my finger on it. We talked for hours, sharing our life stories. One of the
funny things that came up was that Tom thought I was younger than him, even though I‟m 15 years older than
the dear, sweet boy. I‟m very fortunate in my old age to look younger than my years. It‟s probably good, clean
living,” here Megan and Tom both gave snorts of laughter.

Then Megan continued, “Or it‟s my genes or the hormone therapy I did when I hit menopause. Anyway, he
couldn‟t believe it when he found out my age. He claimed I was some kind of changeling.”

Tom took up the story then. “Let me just say that she was a gorgeous woman with character and personality and
I didn‟t want to let her out of my life. But there was a serious problem. I was there on an Army assignment and
it turned out that Megan and I both were investigating the same person, the oil sheik. I was careful, of course, to
keep my real purpose and job a secret. But I had to come up with a way to keep Megan in Paris. So I told her it
was love at first sight and that she had to stay around and let it play itself out.”

Megan chimed in, “Have you ever heard such a load of crap? But I bought into it, hook, line and sinker, as the
cliché goes. So I stayed in Paris. Tom and I saw each other almost every day, depending on his work
assignments. After two weeks, we both knew this was the real thing. And still Tom didn‟t tell me what he was
really doing in Paris. Instead, he put in for a discharge. He told me later that the Army had fought like hell to
keep him but he was adamant that he was ready to get on with his life and that did not include intelligence work
for the Army. A month after we met, Tom was discharged from the Army. I‟d stayed in Paris for that month
and then we flew back to the states together. We were married a week later, once we could do the blood tests
and paperwork. And the rest is history. We‟ve been married for 15 years now and couldn‟t be happier or more
in love. It took years for Tom to tell me what he‟d been doing. I think it was some kind of confidentiality thing
with the Army. But eventually he said the hell with it and confessed all.”

Lisa sat there gazing at the two of them, a beatific look on her face. Then, she reached in her pocket and pulled
out a 3 x 5 card notebook, just like the ones I used.

"I hope you don't mind, but I'd like to take some notes on your wonderful love story."

Megan and Tom looked like two deer caught in the headlights. It was such a funny look that I giggled. I
couldn't help myself. The three of them then tried to glare at me but ended up laughing also.

At Tom's suggestion, we took our coffee out to the patio that wrapped around the back of the house. It was
early October and in St. Louis that meant perfect Indian Summer weather. Tom lit the torches at the edge of the
patio, then lit a small fire in a pottery chiminea. Megan put the finishing touches on the atmosphere and started
a jazz CD playing in the background.

I liked these people, I really liked them. I knew Tom and Megan were a couple I'd be easily able to stay in
touch with because Rivermont was so close to St. Louis. But the one I really wanted to stay in touch with was
Lisa and she was a different case. Living in Seattle meant she was half a country away from me. Of course, we
could always do a virtual friendship with e-mail and phone calls. And there was my new toy -- my Web cam.
I'd have to ask Lisa if she had one or was interested in getting one.

I'd bought it last year at the insistence of my brother Todd's two kids. They were fascinated with technology
and convinced Aunt Leslie that this was the coolest thing ever. And actually, I sort of agreed with them that it
was cool. The twins and I spent a few hours each week talking together. Sometimes when Mom and Dad came
for dinner, they'd get in front of the computer and talk to their grandkids like we were all in the same room
together.

One day, Todd and the twins called us together for a Web meeting. The twins had an idea they wanted to run by
their grandparents and had their Dad there for moral support.
"Pops," we'd like to do a family history. Pops was what they called my Dad. Mom was Gram. Mom and Dad
totally doted on the twins. They'd been born prematurely, with xxx weighing 2 pounds, 2 ounces and yyyy
weighing 1 pound 8 ounces. They were tiny little miracles that you could hold in your hand. For the first couple
of weeks, we all lived in terror for them. Then, as they started gaining weight, we relaxed a little. and now 16
years later, they were big, strong teenagers. I loved them so much, as much as if they were my own. I felt so
close to them and so grateful to have them in my life. I had always wanted children and even now hoped that
even at my age there might be children in my future, God willing.

When the evening ended, I called our driver, He came almost immediately so I assumed he'd been parked
somewhere nearby. He took us each to our hotel, Lisa first, and then me. As Lisa got out of the car, she
promised that we'd stay in touch. She was on her way to more book signings in Chicago and I was on my way
back home to Rivermont. I'd been out on the road for two weeks and was looking forward to some quiet time
alone where I wouldn't be smiling on demand.

Lisa and I did stay in touch. Our instant friendship had meant something important to both of us, and we both
made the time and took the effort to continue with a long-distance friendship.

Then finally last summer, I'd made my first trip out to the Pacific Northwest. Lisa had invited me to come stay
with her in her apartment on Bainbridge Island, near Seattle in Puget Sound.

Her daughters were planing a birthday gala for her 65th, and Lisa had especially wanted me to be there. She had
a writer friend who was going to be one of the honored guests attending the party, and it was probably my
favorite writer, Trace Mellon. I 'd read everything he'd written, more than once actually. Matt had also been a
fan of Mellon and we'd tentatively made plans to visit Portland, Oregon on our honeymoon in hopes of getting
an audience with the great man.

Trace was in his seventies and had been one of the beat generation writers that eventually evolved into the
hippie generation. Trace was a renaissance writer who could write novels, mysteries and poetry. He'd just
finished the last volume in a long memoir and I couldn't wait for it to hit the bookstores.

When Lisa told me Trace Mellon was going to be at her birthday party, wild horses couldn't have kept me
away. Just as I was ready to start making my travel arrangements, I got a phone call from Megan Carter. It
turned out that Lisa had invited them also and had told them I was planning on coming also.

"We're chartering a plane for the trip," Megan told me. "And we'd love to have you ride along with us."

"I can't think of a way I'd rather travel," had been my response.

I tried to make them let me contribute to the cost of the flight but they wouldn't hear of it.

The plan was for the charter to leave on Friday morning. Lisa's party was Saturday night so that would give us
time to settle in and get ourselves accustomed to the two-hour time difference.

On the Thursday before we left, I went to St. Louis for a shopping spree with Megan. We were looking for the
perfect birthday present for Lisa, in addition to wanting to upgrade our wardrobes for the trip.

We found Lisa's gift in a rare book store owned by a friend of Megan's. It was a signed first edition of Trace
Mellon's first book. Lisa was going to be over the moon for this. Megan's friend gave us a special deal on the
book ,but Megan insisted on paying more than half.
"Listen, kid," she'd told me. "My parents left me more money than I could spend in 10 lifetimes. Even with
giving it away to charity, there's still a boatload of money lying around. I'm trying my best to put it to good use,
so you can't deny me this indulgence."

Over the past two years, since I'd first met them, I'd read newspaper articles about some of the Carters' generous
charitable contributions in and around the St Louis area, actually extending as far as Rivermont in some cases.
But I was sure the ones I read about were only the tip of the iceberg. As Megan said, she had almost as much
money as God and she wanted to make sure it was put to good use.

I was excited about the flight to Seattle. I'd never flown charter and I was looking forward to the experience.
Because Mom and Dad wanted to meet the Carters, they insisted on driving me to the small private airport
outside St. Louis. As usual, I'd packed too much for such a short visit, but I always wanted to be prepared for
any event. I brought several more outfits than I'd need, in case I changed my mind about what I wanted to wear.
Of course, there was my laptop in its rolling cart case. Mom teased me about my over-packing but also gave me
a wink to let me know she realized I'd inherited this from her.

Dad had spent some weeks in Seattle over the years on various business trips, and he gave me some ideas about
restaurants and sights to see. I loved the way Mom and Dad could make a special event out of anything, even
something as simple as a drive to an airport. As part of the event planning, Mom had brought along some of her
special chocolate chip cookies. She'd also put together a mix CD of music we all liked. There was that much
music that we had in common, but Mom managed to find enough songs to cover the drive to St. Louis. Dad
loved country, much to Mom's and my dismay. The country songs she chose for his share of the CD were on of
the less-offensive kind -- no sitting in the bar and crashing a track -- mostly heavy on the Faith Hill and Tim
McGraw. Mom's music of choice was jazz and she did a nice intermingling of Admad Jamal and Diana Krall
and Miles Davis. I was the rock lady and for me she included a sprinkling of Springsteen, the Eagles,
Fleetwood Mac, Michael Jackson (bless his heart), Mariah Carey and Cheryl Crowe. All in all, a good listening
CD and I made Mom promise to give it to when I got home or to burn a copy for me.

When we arrived at the airport, Dad stopped in front of the main terminal door to let Mom and I and all my
luggage out in front of the small building and then parked in the nearby lot. We stood there and waited for Dad
to join us and help us schlep my luggage inside

Megan was standing near the main counter and when she saw us come in the front door, she came over and
gave me a hug.

I introduced Mom and Dad to her and then asked Megan where Tom was.

Megan chuckled and said, "He's out with the pilot and co-pilot, playing with the airplane. He promised to not
tell them how to fly it but I 'm not sure I can trust that he'll keep his word."

"Is Tom a pilot?" I asked, not remembering if I'd ever heard that about him.

"Oh, yes, he certainly is," Megan answered. "He took private flying lessons while he was in the Army and he's
qualified on several different types of aircraft, including the corporate jet we're flying in today. So we can
expect him to hang out in the cockpit for at least part of the flight."

I laughed and said, "Boys and their toys," making sure my father heard me. I got a fake frown from him but I
knew he knew I was obliquely referring to the huge toy that he called a boat. During the summer, the boat was
kept on the lake by their Edelweiss house. In winter, Dad dry-docked the boat at a nearby storage marina. Dad
loved that boat -- I called it a ship -- and so did Todd and the twins. Mom and I were okay with it but didn't
have the passion for the boat that the rest of the family did.
Just then, Tom came through the door that led to the tarmac and came over to meet Mom and Dad. He and Dad
hit it off at once because Dad has always had a secret or actually not-so-secret yearning to learn how to fly. The
two of them proceeded to desert us and go back out to where the pristine little Lear jet sat poised and beautiful
on the runway.

Megan shook her head and grinned. "We'll be lucky to get out of here anywhere near on time." She asked the
woman behind the counter to watch my luggage and then led us to over a small cafe area that served coffee and
sandwiches.

I was too wound up to have anything but coffee. Plus I'd had more than one of Mom's chocolate chip cookies
on the drive from Rivermont. Mom became entranced with a lemon meringue pie in a glass-covered pie dish on
the cafe counter.

"Go ahead, Mom," I urged. "I know how you feel about lemon meringue pie." At Mom's request, the waitress
cut her a generous piece. The three of us perched on red vinyl stools at the counter, deciding we'd rather sit
there than at one of the small tables.

Mom asked the waitress for two extra forks so that Megan and I could each have a taste of her pie. It was
absolutely the best lemon meringue pie I'd ever tasted. It was so good in fact, that I ordered a piece also, despite
the chocolate chip cookie overload. Megan let herself be persuaded to order a piece also.

"You know," Mom began, and I knew what was coming. She was going to tell us a lemon meringue pie story
from her childhood. She smiled at me and continued, "Leslie's heard this story so many times but I hope she'll
bear with me once more."

I reached over and squeezed her hand and said, "Mom, it's my pleasure to listen to your stories, no matter if I've
heard them before."

Mom squeezed my hand back and proceeded with her story. “Growing up, I thought my Mom was the greatest
cook ever. Now, looking back, I guess she really wasn‟t all that great compared to some of the gourmet cooks I
know today. But Mom had quite a few special recipes and I‟ll remember those all my life. One of my all-time
favorites was her lemon meringue pie. This was back in the day when everything was baked from scratch.
There were no cake mixes or pie filling mixes. I remember standing in the kitchen by the table gazing up at
Mom as she made the pie. Our kitchen didn‟t have counters like houses have today so Mom‟s baking took place
on the kitchen table.

“I liked the part where she made the dough for the piecrust. She‟d let me have some of the scraps to nibble on.
She‟d put most of the scraps aside to make some cinnamon sugar roll-up things that were delicious and
probably another one of my most favorite things that Mom made.

“She‟d roll out the dough, spread it liberally with margarine – which we called oleo in those days, because its
full name was oleo margarine. Then she‟d sprinkle sugar and cinnamon over the margarine. Next she‟d roll up
the dough into a long tube-like thing and slice it into pieces. When they were done baking, they‟d be crisp and
smelling wonderfully. They never lasted long around my brother and me.

“It‟s funny, talking about the cinnamon things, I realize they didn‟t have a name. I think we just called them the
cinnamon things. When my kids were growing up, for some reason Todd named them kobaties and the name
stuck. I don‟t know where Todd got the name. He had his own language for his first few years and we ended up
using his words, too.

Mom stopped talking then said to Megan, “I‟m sorry – you don‟t want to hear my ramblings.”

Megan protested with, “I love your story. Please continue. You haven‟t gotten to the lemon meringue pie part.”
Mom smiled at Megan and said, “That‟s sweet of you.” She turned to me and said, “You have such good taste
in friends.”

I agreed and told Mom to tell her story.

“Where was I? Oh yes, watching Mom roll out the pie dough. That‟s another thing that‟s different. Now we buy
packaged pie crusts and they‟re as flaky and rich as the homemade ones. It was fascinating to watch Mom roll
and stretch and take a tiny ball of dough and make it big enough to fit over the glass pie dish with some scraps
left hanging over the edge.

“Once the crust was ready – or I should say crusts – which is the point of my story – we moved to the stove.
She had preheated the oven for the crusts, and she slipped the two glass pie plates into the oven and set the
timer. I still have Mom‟s pie plates and use them to bake holiday pies. Someday I hope Leslie will use them for
her family.”

Mom paused in her story to pat my arm and whisper, “Sorry, sweetie, I didn‟t mean to say that.” I patted her
hand and mouthed, “It‟s okay, Mom.”

Mom smiled at Megan and said, “Sometimes I say things without thinking – somehow I bypass my brain,
which isn‟t a good trait for a trial lawyer. Now where was I in the story. Ah, yes. With the piece crusts baking
in the oven, it was time to make the fillings. On the stove Mom placed two pots – one for the lemon meringue
mix and one for the chocolate mix. You see, our family was split down the middle in pie preferences. Mom and
I were the lemon meringue folks, and my Dad and brother only wanted chocolate pie. So any time Mom baked
pie, she had to bake two, to keep peace and happiness in the family.

“So she mixed the lemon pie filling in one pot and the chocolate pie filling in the other pan. Sometimes I got to
stir the pots and that was fun for a little girl.

“When the timer dinged, Mom took the piecrusts out of the oven and put them on cooling racks for a few
minutes while she whipped up the meringue topping.

“This was another part I really enjoyed watching. Mom would separate what seemed like a dozen eggs, putting
the yellows in one bowl and the whites in another bowl. She covered the bowl with the yellows and put it in the
refrigerator, or icebox as we called it in the „olden‟ days.” Mom smiled at me when she said the word olden.
That‟s the word I‟d used growing up to describe when Mom was little and she never let me forget it.

“Mom got out her Sunbeam Mixmaster, as it was called, and began beating the egg whites into a huge, frothy
mound. I was always amazed that a small quantity of clear, slippery, squirmy stuff could turn into a mountain
of white puffs. She‟d slowly add sugar and vanilla, carefully and gently blending them into the whites.

“Putting the whipped meringue aside, next she‟d pour the lemon and chocolate fillings into a pie crust. Then
she mounded each pie with meringue. I got to lick the meringue bowl and the lemon filling pot. The chocolate
pot was saved for my Dad or my brother, whichever one showed up first got to the lick the pot.

“Mom put the pies in the oven and once again set the timer. I sat there finishing my licking job while Mom
made the cinnamon roll-ups with the left over piecrust dough. I managed to sneak a few more pieces of dough
when I thought Mom wasn‟t looking. But I imagine I wasn‟t putting anything over on her.

“The pie baking was a Saturday morning activity because Mom worked and Saturdays and Sundays were her
only days at home.”

Megan asked, “What did your Mom do?”
Mom hesitated a moment and then said, “She was an engineer at a local aircraft company.”

Megan looked at her quizzically, and Mom nodded, understanding Megan‟s surprise. “Yes, that was a very
unusual occupation for a woman in those days. I took a lot of teasing from kids at school. Their mothers all
stayed home and kept house. My Mom was gone every day and we had a woman who came in several times a
week to clean and cook and do our laundry.”

I thought about how my grandmother pushed the envelope for what was expected of women in those days. Her
forward thinking had resulted in my Mom‟s absolute conviction that women were as capable in every way as
men. Fortunately, my Dad had agreed wholeheartedly with Mom.

But evidently Mom wasn‟t finished with her stories about Grandma Belle yet. And, of course, the men hadn‟t
returned from their sojourn with the pilot and co-pilot, so it looked like we were going to hang out here for
awhile longer.

“Mom worked hard all week and then on weekends she played house. She baked and cooked and had exciting
adventures with my brother and me. Another one of my all-time favorite of Mom‟s recipes was for her glazed
doughnuts.

“She‟d gotten the recipe from her mother, and it was rather unusual sounding. It called for potato water. So
Mom would boil potatoes and drain off the water to use in the dough. The cooked potatoes would become
mashed potatoes or potatoes au gratin or some other potato dish, like party potatoes, which I‟ll tell you abaout
later if we have time.

“Anyway, the potato water went into the dough and gave it a particular flavor. I remember the whole yeast,
dough rising phenomena. It was fascinating to a little girl to watch a small globe of dough rise into a huge bowl
full of dough. I never got over my wonder at watching the change.

“When the dough had risen to the correct height, my Mom would divide it into two bowls. One she would used
for the glazed doughnuts. The other bowl was intended for Parker House rolls. Just an aside about Parker House
rolls. Of course, they were named for the famed Parker House, a hotel located in Boston. Mom would make the
each roll with three small pieces of dough stuck together. They were wonderfully soft and fragrant, with
browned tops and room inside for lots of butter.

“But I digress. What I really want to talk about now are the glazed doughnuts my Mom made. The other half of
the dough was intended for those. Mom would roll out the dough and use her special doughnut cutter to make
the round doughnuts with a hole in the middle. Of course, the doughnut holes were my brother‟s and my
favorite. We insisted that Mom fry the doughnut holes first so we could much on those while Mom worked on
the rest of the doughnuts. We‟d roll the doughnut holes in powdered sugar or in cinnamon and white sugar
mixed together.

“Before Mom started frying the doughnuts, she would mix up the glaze, which consisted of powdered sugar,
milk and vanilla. She‟d have the bowl of glaze right next to the frying pan. So as she removed a doughnut from
the frying pan, she would dip it in the bowl of glaze, turning it so that both sides of the doughnut were
completely covered with the sugary glaze.

“The doughnuts were so delectable that they barely lasted a day in the pantry – which by the way is another
story for another day. Sometimes the neighbors would find out that Mom had made doughnuts and they
somehow found excuses to drop in.”
Although I‟d heard these food stories before, I enjoyed hearing them again. And the next time I saw Grandma
Belle, I told her that Mom had been at it again, telling her food stories to anyone who would listen. Grandma
had laughed and shook her head, saying, “My Kat is something else!”

Grandma Belle had nicknamed her baby girl Kat and the name had stuck. Even Dad mostly called her Kat,
reserving the Katherine for serious topics.

As AI sat there listening to Mom go on about other food-related times in her life, I had a flashback of a life-
altering conversation Grandma Belle and I had had two months after Matt‟s death. She'd been visiting me in my
old room, at Mom and Dad's, where I'd been staying since Matt died. I mostly stayed in the room, refusing to
come out except for an occasional meal. Now I realized that I'd sunk into a deep depression and wasn't able to
get out of it on my own.

Mom and Dad were becoming increasingly worried about me and had tried to get me to agree to talk to a
counselor or a minister, but I would have no part of it. Later, I found out that Mom was at the end of her rope
and had talked to Grandma Belle and had asked her to help. Gram had been hesitant about interfering,
respecting my privacy. But evidently my parents had been able to convince her how worried they were and
she'd begun to share their worry.

That fateful day, Grandma came from her apartment to visit me in my room. She sat in the overstuffed rocking
chair next to the windows. I was lying on the sofa adjacent to the rocker, eyes closed, one of the afghans Gram
had crocheted pulled up to my chin, my eyes closed, trying to shut out the world and the pain. I think
somewhere deep in my mind, I knew I was in trouble, that I needed help. But consciously, I wouldn't admit any
of that to myself. Physically, I'd lost some weight, I was pale and fragile-looking, and I was mostly tired all the
time, and slept 12 to 14 hours a day.

That day in my room, Grandma Belle had revealed to me for the first time how the loss of her husband, my
grandfather, had affected her.

“George was the love of my life. We had 50 wonderful years together but when he died, I wanted to die, too. I
didn‟t know how to go on without him. Then somehow, from somewhere, I got the idea that made all the
difference in my life. I like to think it came from George, that he‟s still with me, watching over me as my
guardian angel. Anyway, the idea was to live as fully as possible in the present moment – to not dwell on the
past and grieve for what can‟t be, and not to live for the future. So I put that idea into practice.”

Grandma continued, "Here‟s what I‟m asking you to do. Can you come stay with me in my apartment for a
couple of weeks? Just to get you through the worst of this lingering grief you‟re going through. I can help – I‟m
probably the only one in your life right now who can, because I‟ve been through what you‟re going through.”

And so I‟d done just that. I‟d moved in with Grandma Belle and actually I‟d stayed there in her apartment for
two months. I was sort of a hard case, she‟d told me, after everything was okay.

On the first day after I moved my few things into Gram's spare bedroom, Gram continued her story about
Grandpa George. At the time. we‟d been sitting in the living room of the little apartment that my parents had
made for Grandma Belle as an extension of their lakeside home in Edelweiss. The room had floor to ceiling
windows that looked out on one of the larger lakes at Edelweiss, and the view was spectacular. Rolling hills
surrounded the lake and the trees were beginning to turn green for spring. We could see Dad‟s huge boat at our
dock – he‟d just gotten it out of dry-dock and we grinned in unison as we thought of him and his toy.

“I have a good life now,” Grandma Belle continued, “ a full, happy life, especially with my two grandchildren
and my two great grandchildren. Your mother and father have made me feel welcome and useful here. I have
my volunteer work at church, and I‟ve continued to keep up with my journal writing. So all in all, life is good.
But I almost went down another path, and thank God that I didn‟t. For quite some time after your grandfather
died, all I could do was sit around and feel sorry for myself. I was sinking into a major depression, although I
managed to hide it from your parents.

“Then one spring day, I was sitting in the living room of the house George built for me, I had this epiphany. I
knew I‟d reached a crossroads. I could continue to wallow in my grief and self-pity or I could take another path.
And right then and there, I decided to take that other path. I decided to live as completely in the moment as I
could, to make the remainder of my life, however long that might be, as good and happy and full as I could.

“Your parents had been after me to move in with them and I had stubbornly refused to even consider it. That
day, I called your Dad to come see me. When he got there, I told him I‟d decided to take him up on his offer to
build a separate apartment for me onto their house. He‟d been delighted to hear it – you know what a fixer he is.
He‟d called your Mom to tell her the good news, and she‟d come over to join us.

“Six months later, I‟d sold my house and moved in to my new apartment and life was good. Now, sweetie, the
reason for this long, winding story is to prepare you for the advice I‟m about to give you over the next few
weeks. I can see you heading down the same path I initially took after George died. I don‟t want that to happen
to you. And I‟m not going to let it happen to you."

So Gram literally saved my life. After two months, I could once again function, although minimally at first. I'd
never gotten completely over the loss of Matt and still checked out grief-related workshops and books. But for
the most part, I was back to being myself, or even a new and improved version of myself. I, too, felt as
Grandma did -- that I had a guardian angel watching over me.


Sitting there with Megan and Mom in the small air terminal on the outskirts of St. Louis, my mind had totally
wandered off, losing touch with where I was and who I was with. Fortunately, Mom and Megan were so
engrossed in their conversation that they hadn't noticed that I'd drifted off.

Finally, Megan stood up and announced that she was ready to fly,. She had evidently decided to take matters
into her own hands. Excusing herself from Mom and me, she proceeded to march out onto the tarmac where she
confronted Tom, my Dad, the pilot and co-pilot. There was a lot of nodding and head shakes and hand gestures
from all involved.

Mom and I watched, exchanging glances of admiration of Megan. When the pilot and co-pilot climbed into
Lear, Mom and I grinned and gave each other a high five. Tom, Megan and Dad came back into the terminal,
and tom asked one of the young men behind the counter to put my luggage on board.

Mom, Dad and I said our good-byes. I walked with them out to their car and gave them each one final hug.

"I like your friends, sweetie," Dad said. And Tom has invited me to come fly with him any time I want." At the
time I missed understanding what Dad was saying. Later, I learned that Tom and Megan owned a four-seater
Cessna, in addition to -- drum roll -- the Lear jet. It hadn't been a charter after all -- they owned the plane and
employed the pilots. What a surprise!


Leslie

I was now tired of being in the hospital and ready to be discharged. I 'd been there almost three days and it was
time to go. My doctor, Elise, was scheduled for early rounds and I intended to beg her, on hands and knees if
necessary, to send me home.

Mom and Dad had convinced me that I had to come stay with them and Gram, at least for a few days, until they
were sure that I would be fine on my own.
I got up out of bed where I'd been lounging in complete boredom and went over to the window that overlooked
the hospital grounds. It was an amazing location for a hospital -- in the center of downtown Rivermont but in a
50 acre enclave. Tress, shrubs, rock gardens, walking trails, flower gardens, ponds, fountains, you name it and
Rivermont Memorial had it. The land had been donated to the hospital a century ago, when Rivermont was just
a small river town. The hospital trustees had managed to hang on to the land, although they could have made a
fortune for the hospital by selling off bits and pieces. But fortunately the same generous donor who had given
them the land had also provided an endowment that would probably never run out of money, no matter what the
economy did or how much health care costs increased.

Mom and Dad's law firm was one of several used by the hospital, and they'd told me it was a one of a kind
facility. Evidently, no other hospital in the world had the kind of financial backing that Rivermont Memorial
did. In addition to being a showplace, it was also state-of-the-art, surpassing even the world-renowned Barnes-
Jewish Hospital, the crown jewel of St. Louis hospitals.

I stood at the window, enjoying the view, wishing I were out there instead of in here. Something caught my eye
and I leaned forward to get a better look. I saw someone down on the path that encircled the hospital buildings
and thought it was a familiar looking man. He was dressed in scrubs and had on a surgical hat and a mask. I
was shocked to realize that it was the man who had come into my room yesterday and then had disappeared
down the staircase.

I wanted to race down to where he stood, confront him, find out who he was and what he was doing at the
hospital. Why had he come into my room? Why was he now standing outside, seemingly staring up at my third
floor room. I squinted my eyes, trying to get a better look, but that didn't help. My purse was setting on the
windowsill and I reached inside and rummaged around till I found my glasses. I hardly ever wear them --
they're intended for distance and I mostly don't need them or wear them except when I'm driving at night in
unfamiliar territory.

I put the glasses on and looked down once more at the man standing looking up at my window.


Perry Jones

I stood there looking up at the windows of the hospital, certain I could identify the woman's room, For a
moment I even thought I could see her standing at the window but it was probably only a trick of the light.

It was almost time to really set things in motion. I'd done my research, and now I would put my plan into
action. I'd been waiting quite some time for this moment and it felt good, it made me feel vindicated. I deserved
retribution. And this woman deserved punishment for what she'd done.

I thought back to what I‟d done before leaving the hospital. I‟d gone to see Dr. Jeff Talbot, my hero, my idol. I
had first checked on the whereabouts of his mother and daughter and found them in the cafeteria having supper.
That gave me a few minutes to have a look at Dr. Talbot. Outside his room, I had slowly and quietly turned the
doorknob and eased the over-sized door open a few inches. I could see inside to where Dr. Talbot lay
motionless on the bed and the room appeared to be empty except for him – no doctor, no nurse, no nurse‟s aid,
no family. I opened the door a few more inches, enough for me to slip inside. I stood there by the door, not
going any closer to the bed where Dr. Talbot lay. I wanted to see for myself what his condition was. I‟d been
eavesdropping on conversations for days now. The gist of what I‟d overheard was that the psychologist was in a
persistent light coma but no one knew why. No one knew when or even if he would come out of the coma.

I stood there feeling guilty about what had happened. Three days ago, I'd had a momentary hitch in my plans. I
saw the opportunity and I took it but the timing was off and the results were less than satisfactory.
Instead of killing my prey, I'd injured my savior instead. And now he lay in a coma as I'd overheard from the
gossip in the corridors of the hospital. Now Leslie Davis had two sins to atone for.

I‟d backed out of Dr. Talbot‟s room and had gone outside the hospital to stare up at the room where Leslie
Davis was.

A light rain had begun to fall and I hurried back to my automobile, ready to call it a night for now. I had
realized after that incident in the woman's room that I wouldn't be able to fulfill my purpose here in the
hospital. It would have to take place elsewhere. Besides, I'd grown to dislike these scrubs I wore, and the mask
and surgical cap and booties. I looked ridiculous.

I drove home slowly and carefully, as always. It wouldn't do to get stopped by police. I must continue to keep a
low profile and stay out of the line of fire, so to speak. My house was only two miles from the hospital and I
was home inside of 10 minutes. I used the garage door opener to open the door and then close it behind me. The
garage was mostly empty, just as I preferred. There was the trash can, a lawn mower and a hose and not much
else.

The garage and the house itself were different from when Teresa still lived here. She had managed to fill every
empty space. The clutter had distressed me, and I took every opportunity to discard what I could. That was
quite a bone of contention between Teresa and myself. I would very appropriately rid myself of unnecessary
accoutrements and Teresa would explode at what she called the loss of her things. Over and over, I had
patiently explained the beauty, the reverence of simplicity.

I could remember so vividly the last time this happened. I can still hear her screaming, "You are insane. You
are absolutely crazy. I cannot stand this another moment." That had been the time when she actually left. She
had been threatening to leave for almost the entire two years of our marriage, yelling about how she didn't
understand me, that I was in no way the man she had married.

I was not happy that she left. She was my wife. Our home was where she belonged. It bothered me that there
was now this dissonance of a missing wife interfering with the order of my life.

I had known I would have to do something about her absence but thought I had time. It turned out that I had no
time. Behind my back, unbeknownst to me, Teresa had met with a lawyer, that woman Leslie Davis, and had
set the wheels in motion to divorce me.

Inside the house, I turned on the kitchen light and started the coffeemaker. It was chilly and damp outside and
inside and I wanted warmth. I realized that I'd forgotten to eat and looked through the refrigerator and the
pantry to see what was available. There wasn't much. Evidently I'd forgotten to grocery shop also.

From the pantry I took a jar of crunchy peanut butter and a half-empty box of Ritz crackers. I put the crackers
on a plate, along with a knife for spreading the peanut butter and took the plate and the crackers to the dining
room table. The living room, dining room and kitchen were open to one another and if I sat at the dining room
table I could see the TV and the fireplace. I lit a fire, then turned on the TV to the local newscast and laid the
remote on the dining room table. In the kitchen, I poured myself a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar and
went back and sat down at the dining room table, where I spread peanut butter on several crackers.

The newscast caught my attention. They were doing a follow-up story on the Hummer that three days ago had
plowed into a group of people standing on a parking lot.

The newscaster, a middle-aged man going bald, intoned in a somewhat pompous voice, “Rivermont detective
Charles Standish says that they have no leads on the man who crashed a truck into several Rivermont residents,
two of whom are still in the hospital here in Rivermont.”
He concluded the news segment with: “If you have information that could help the police arrest the perpetrator
of this crime, please call the number at the bottom of your television screen.”

I toyed with the idea of calling the number, just to see how they handled it but thought better of it. The
newscast ended and was followed by Wheel of Fortune, which I detest. I quickly turned off the TV and,
finished eating, I took my plate into the kitchen and washed it and set it in the dish drainer to dry.

I had work to do. I went downstairs to the basement, which was another whole living area, with living room,
bedroom and bathroom. All it lacked to be s self-contained apartment was a kitchen. Maybe I‟d put one in
someday, and maybe I wouldn‟t.

In my downstairs office, I turned on the computer and then put a CD of Gregorian chants into the CD player. I
opened the spreadsheet that contained the research information I‟d gathered over the past months/

Last night, I‟d done a search on a new name I had overheard Jeff Talbot‟s mother mention on a phone call to a
friend.

I searched first in Yahoo on Althea Davenport. That was the name of Jeff Talbot‟s newly assigned doctor, the
one his mother had insisted on calling in for a consultation. Evidently the mother had liked what she saw or
heard or both and had replaced Dr. Derringer with Dr. Davenport.

I got back several million search results on Althea Davenport but as usual, only the first page or so of hits were
relevant to what I was seeking.


By the time I had checked out the first page of results, I had all the background I needed on Dr. Althea
Davenport. She was a well-known neurologist, with impressive credentials. I mentally applauded Jeff Talbot‟s
mother for her wise decision about switching doctors. Dr. Talbot was in much better hands with Dr. Davenport.

Next, I accessed the local TV stations‟ Web sites so get more details on the newscast about the SUV attack.
That had of course been me in the Hummer, which I‟d “borrowed” from neighbor who stupidly left the keys in
the ignition. He was just asking for someone to steal the vehicle so I obliged.

After the botched accident that didn‟t kill Leslie Davis, I deposited the Hummer in a deep quarry filled with
runoff water, several miles outside of Rivermont. I assume myself to be safe from police detection or even
suspicion on this one.

The Talbots and Dr. Davenport were ancillary entries in my spreadsheet. The main portion of the document was
occupied by data on Leslie Davis. I had details on her life – her address, phone numbers, occupation, where she
went to school, who her friends were, information about her dead minister boyfriend, and pages of information
on her lawyer parents – Katherine and Jack Davis were all over the news and the Internet, almost on a daily
basis. I knew I still needed more data. I needed to know everything I could find out about Leslie Davis.

Once again, I used search, this time typing in Leslie Davis‟s name. And once again I got back hundreds of
pages of search results.

I clicked on each result in turn, carefully reading the source pages, copying much of the data and entering it into
the spreadsheet.

Leslie Davis had led an interesting life, with law school, her parents‟ law practice, followed by wild success wit
the publication of her first mystery. One of the old news articles on the Internet covered the tragedy of the death
of her fiancé in a train derailment four years ago. Something clicked in my brain and I sat there motionless as I
tried to retrieve a piece of pertinent data from my memory.
Then it came to me. Jeff Talbot‟s wife had died in a train derailment also. Could it be the same train derailment.
The timing looked right – four years was Leslie‟s trail derailment and the timing was about the same for Jeff
Talbot‟s wife. I went back to the Internet to search once again, this time on Miriam Talbot, Jeff‟s wife. There
were fewer pages of search results to go through, and once again I found all that I needed and more on the first
page.

I made additional entries in my spreadsheet on Jeff and Miriam Talbot. I was blown away by the coincidence of
Jeff‟s wife and Leslie‟s fiancé both dying in the same derailment. What were the odds of something like that
happening? Astronomical, I would assume.

I paged down the spreadsheet, looking for ideas, looking for inspiration. I didn‟t yet know how I was going to
do this but I fully intended to end Leslie Davis‟ life just as she had for all intents and purposes ended mine.

There was plenty of time to accomplish my mission. I was in no hurry. I had no deadline or timeline. I could do
this at my own leisurely pace.

Jeff

I was lying here still puzzling over what had happened a few minutes ago. Ssomeone had come into my room. I
couldn‟t tell who it was but I knew someone was there. Whoever it was didn‟t come close to the bed. I could
hear faint breathing for a couple of minutes and then it stopped and I heard the gentle closing of the door.

Maybe it was a nurse checking on me from the doorway. But it hadn‟t felt like that. It had felt like someone
seeing if I was still there. I puzzled over it for a few moments and then let it go. I had much weightier things on
my mind. Earlier, Mom and Celia had discussed the coming of Gwen. Gwen was my older sister, once a
constant nemesis in my life but now just a distant pain in the butt.

Gwen was a high-powered investment banker in Chicago, wealthy and influential. She‟d been married once,
briefly, but had ended the marriage in favor of concentrating on her career. During our childhood, she had been
a know-it-all. She always had to have to her way and was clever enough to con Mom into giving in. Mostly this
didn‟t impact me because I was five years younger than Gwen and interested in different things.

But every once in awhile, Gwen‟s desires and mine were in conflict and inevitably, she won out. I thought I‟d
never let on to Mom how I felt about Gwen but this afternoon Mom had said something to Celia that let me
know Mom had realized the vague antipathy I felt toward my older sister.

“You know, sweetie, unfortunately your Dad and his sister have never been close. In fact, I‟m rather surprised
that Gwen feels she should come to visit him.”

I hadn‟t heard Celia‟s response because they were leaving the room to go get some supper. He wondered how
his daughter had reacted to her grandmother's statement. Knowing Celia and how her mind worked, she was
still processing the information. She'd be thinking back to what she already knew about her aunt. She'd
remember how seldom we saw her aunt. She'd remember how little I'd talked about my sister. She'd compare
that to what her grandmother had said. The way Celia's mind worked was fascinating. It reminded me of a
supercomputer, inputting data, processing and then offering up conclusions that for a 14-year-old were
amazingly logical and mature.

Unfortunately, when it came to emotions and family ties, I was afraid that Celia's supercomputer mind was
going to get bogged down in things that didn't co-exist well with logic.
I was beginning to feel desperate about my condition. I had to be well. I had to wake up. I had to do this for
Celia. She'd lost one parent and she couldn't lose another one. She was such a special person and I wanted her
to have every advantage to grow into the wonderful adult I knew she would become.

This coma was incredibly maddening to me. I felt as though I were awake. I just couldn't open my eyes or move
or talk.

Just before I drifted off to sleep, I thought once more about my mystery visitor from earlier. I didn't like the
idea of being observed like that, as if I were a specimen under a microscope.

Leslie

After the man standing under my window disappeared, I paced back and forth in my room, certain that it had
been the same man who'd come into my room and whom I'd chased down the stairwell. Sure that I'd be unable
to sleep, I decided instead to walk the halls, to work off the tension that was beginning to consume me. I
walked down the hall toward the atrium. It was a two-story room with skylights in the ceiling. Now at 11 p.m.
the only visible through the skylight was a sliver of moon, a scattering of stars, and jet trails from planes flying
high above Rivermont. The lights in the atrium were dim and the atmosphere was soothing, with a waterfall
whooshing into a pond in the center of the room. I sat in front of the waterfall, letting the sound flow through
me, calming me down. I remembered that off to one side of the atrium was a door that led to a non-
denominational chapel. I'd never been in there and decided to take a look.

I tied the belt on my robe a little tighter. It was cooler here in the atrium than the rest of the hospital. I walked
over to the chapel, and stood in the open doorway for a moment. The lighting in the chapel was even dimmer
than in the atrium. It was more of a meditation room than a chapel. There was no altar, just an assortment of
upholstered chairs with low tables in front of them. The lighting was recessed in the ceiling, and there was a
waterfall here also. This one poured down one of the far walls of the chapel. A light shown on the waterfall and
the water glinted as it tumbled.

I sat in the chair facing the waterfall and closed my eyes. I let my thoughts tumble around in my mind, not
trying to corral or control them. After awhile, I found that I'd had a realization and reached a decision.

The realization was about the mystery man. I could remember two other recent occasions when someone very
similar in height and build had been in my vicinity and had done the same staring routine the man under the
window had done. The first was one morning when I was out for a walk around the perimeter of Edelweiss.
One of the many amenities there is a walking trail that encircles the enclave. The entire trail is five miles and I
usually try to do the whole thing once or twice a week. I also regularly walk within my neighborhood and
around the lakes. I'm not a fanatic about exercise -- I just like to walk. I feel so much happier and healthier
when I walk enough.

I had discovered the value that walking provided for me several years ago during a visit to Las Vegas. Mom
and Dad had gone out there to meet with a client and I tagged along because I'd never been to Vegas. There was
also a writer's symposium taking place that week along with a mega computer show. So there was plenty to
keep me occupied. I wasn't a gambler and didn't intend to throw away my money on the slot machines or any
other games of chance -- definitely not my thing. Anyway, back to walking.

I was pretty much on my own and decided to try walking everywhere rather than using cabs. Mom and Dad had
a rental car and offered to let me use it while they were in meetings but I told them I preferred to walk. We
were staying at the Ex Calibur at the far end of the strip -- how far I didn't find out until after the fact. What I
learned was that because the land was so flat, distances are deceptive. Things off in the distance look far closer
than they really are. I'd set out from the hotel for some place and it would take me much longer to get there than
I'd anticipated. After two days of hours of walking, I noticed what a good mood I was in, smiling and happy,
without any specific reason or cause that I could point to.
I also noticed how well I was sleeping, something that wasn't usually the case for me. Normally, it takes me
quite awhile to fall asleep, then I would awaken a couple of times during the night. In the morning when it
came time to wake up, I was groggy and tired and never felt as though I was getting sufficient sleep.

I thought about what I'd been doing the past couple of days and realized that the only thing different I'd been
doing was walking. So, realizing how beneficial it was for me, I continued to make walking a major part of my
routine activities.

Anyway, back to the mystery man. That day as I was walking around the perimeter of Edelweiss, I noticed that
there was a man about a hundred yards in back of me, keeping pace with me, not catching up and not falling
behind. Somehow that caught my attention. It seemed unusual for him to be exactly matching my pace.
Eventually, because he sort of spooked me, I turned off the trail and headed home, glancing back every once in
awhile to see he was following me but he wasn't.

The next time I think I saw him was a couple of days later at the Rivermont Mall. The mall is one of the largest
in the Midwest and has become quite a tourist attraction for Rivermont. It started out 50 years ago as a small
strip mall, and since then has to grown to mega proportions.

I used the mall for two purposes: shopping, of course, and walking. I used my pedometer to measure the
various corridors of the mall and devised a four-mile course for myself, walking past many of my favorite
stores for window-shopping. The best one was the pet store. The store had two large front windows, and the
window on the left spotlighted squirmy squiggly puppies. The one on the right was the showcase was tumbling,
scampering kittens. Whenever I passed by those display windows, I had to force myself to walk in place. If left
to my own devices, I would stop and stare for an hour, completely defeating the purpose of my walk.

I already had two kitties at home and wasn't in the market for any more pets, but I couldn't resist their happy
exuberance.

That day, I was outside the pet store, doing my walking in place thing, and making gestures to the kittens
behind the glass. In the glass of the window, I noticed the reflection of someone standing behind me. He
seemed to be staring at the back of my head. I got goose bumps seeing him there. I was sure it was the man I'd
seen on my walk around Edelweiss a few days previously but couldn't be certain without getting a better look at
his face. I wanted to do it unobtrusively so I dropped down to one knee and began working on the shoelace of
one my running shoes. As I did so, I flicked a quick glance behind and saw the man staring at me. Yup, it was
him. I didn't quite know what to do about it. I didn't feel comfortable saying anything to him. And I didn't think
I could go to the police about such an ephemeral thing. I was stymied. When I stood up, I glanced his way again
and saw that he'd disappeared. I gazed up and down the mall corridors but saw no trace of him.

I decided to look further so I made several forays down the various corridors of the mall but to no avail. He'd
disappeared.

I found a table in the food court area and sat down to think. I had a notebook and pen with me, and I made some
notes about the mystery man's appearance. He was tall, taller than I was, and skinny. I used that word
deliberately. He was almost emaciated. His face was gaunt, with sunken cheeks. His hair was mostly gray and
was longish and windblown. Both times I saw him, he'd been wearing sunglasses, so I had no idea what color
eyes he had.

He was dressed in nondescript clothes -- I could remember worn jeans and a faded, once red Cardinals tee shirt.
He had a Cardinals' baseball hat pulled low on his forehead. Bottom line was I didn't think I could recognize
him without the hat and the shades. They changed his appearance -- or disguised it, as the case may be.
I sat there for awhile, not knowing what to do or whether I should even do anything. I finally decided to talk to
Mom and Dad about the mystery man and see what they thought I should do about him, if anything.

I pulled out my cell phone and punched in the speed dial code for Dad's cell. He answered before I even heard
the phone ring on the other end of the line.

"Hi, baby, what's going on?" His voice held its usual cheeriness and I grinned when I heard it.

"Well, Dad, are you and Mom at home? I'd like to come talk with you."

"Sure, sweetie, we're here. What do you want to talk to us about?"

I managed to ignore his question and said I'd be there in a few minutes. I didn't want to get into this on the
phone. I wasn't even sure I wanted to get into it at all. But by calling Dad, I'd committed myself. Dad was like a
bulldog and once he took hold of something he wouldn't let it go until he vanquished it.

Unfortunately, my car was parked on the other side of the mall, on the far edge of the parking lot. It took almost
15 minutes for me to walk out there.

I took some of the back roads rather than the highway and was at the entrance to Edelweiss in less time than it
had taken me to walk to my car. Usually whenever I get in the car, I automatically turned on the CD player to
continue listening to whatever audio book I was currently in the midst of. I'm partial to mysteries and I was
listening to a Ridley Pearson book I'd missed when it first came out. But this time I didn't turn the CD player
on. I was too unnerved by my mystery man to want to get involved in someone else's mystery.

I waved a hello to the guard at the Edelweiss gate and drove to Mom's and Dad's lakeside house. I pulled into
the circular drive in front and parked my car off to one side. Neither Mom's nor Dad's car were in the driveway,
which must mean they were in for the evening. I certainly hoped I hadn't messed up any plans they might have
had. Knowing Mom and Dad, if I did, they'd never tell me about it. They were the best parents anyone could
have, and both Todd and I know how lucky we are.

The front door was standing open and the glass storm door was unlocked. I know how safe it is in Edelweiss
but I still lock my doors. Maybe it's because I live alone, except for my kitties of course.

When I'd lived with Mom and Dad, I'd always locked the door behind me, which had caused problems for them
a couple of times by them being locked out. So clever Mom had bought one of those fake rocks from the garden
store and had hidden their car keys and a front door key in it. The funny thing is that the fake rock was so
realistic looking that Mom had difficulty finding it in the rock garden that encircled the front of the house.
She‟d finally solved that problem by writing a big “X” on the rock in indelible marker.

I found my parents in the sunroom, a large airy room off the back of the house. They were watching TV, Dad in
his recliner and Mom in one of corner of the sofa. Ever the multi-taskers, Mom w
++as crocheting what looked like an afghan and Dad was reading the newspaper. When they saw me in the
doorway, they put things aside and Dad turned off the TV. Mom patted the sofa beside her, indicating that I
should come sit next to her.

On my way to the sofa, I stopped to give Dad a kiss, then continued on to my Mom, first kissing her and then
sitting down on the sofa.

“To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” Mom asked.

“You mean besides me wanting to visit with my favorite parents?” I teased.
“You can‟t fool us, kid. So, talk.” This was Dad in a phony gruff voice.

“Well, I began slowly, “it may be nothing but I wanted to see what you two thought.” I paused, then continued.
“Twice now, I‟ve noticed what I think is the same man watching me, really watching me.”

Mom and Dad didn‟t say anything, just waited for me to provide more details.

“The first time was a couple of days ago, here in Edelweiss. I was out walking, doing my thing around the
perimeter. I noticed that there was someone about a hundred yards behind me who seemed to be exactly
keeping pace with me, not catching up and not falling behind. That seemed a little odd, because usually people
either passed me by or faded out of sight but not this guy.

“I eventually got a little concerned and turned off the trail to head home. I kept checking behind me to see if he
was following but he wasn‟t.

“The second time was just awhile ago, at the Rivermont Mall. I was doing my mall walk thing and noticed him
in the reflection of one of the store windows, standing behind me, staring at me. It really unnerved me, and
when I tried to get a good look at him, he‟d disappeared. So after I thought about it for a minute, I decided to
see what you two thought. There doesn‟t seem to be reason enough to contact the police but I‟m not sure.”

Dad said, “Well, granted, there‟s not a lot to go on. But maybe just the fact of contacting the police, perhaps
them doing a little surveillance on your house, might be enough to scare the guy off. It‟s worth considering.”

Mom agreed and then offered, “Why don‟t you come stay with us for a few days? I‟d feel better about this
whole thing if I knew you were where someone could keep an eye on you.”

I thanked Mom for the invitation and said I‟d think about it but that with her and Dad at the law office each
day, I‟d be as alone here as I would be in my condo.

“I could work at home for a few days,” Mom said. “I just don‟t like how this feels.”

“Oh, I‟m probably just imagining things. Saying it all out loud to the two of you has shown me how flimsy my
concerns are. It may not even have been the same guy.” As I said those last words, I knew I didn‟t believe what
I was saying. Somehow I was sure it had been the same man both times.

But I‟d let it go. I got involved in other things and the man hadn‟t reappeared, to the best of my knowledge.

One of the things I got involved in was that I‟d decided to do was to attend a grief workshop I‟d seen advertised
on the bulletin board at Rivermont University. I‟d started teaching a fiction writing workshop earlier in the year
and had been spending some time at the university. There was a bulletin board in the main lobby of the main
building on campus and I had made it a habit to check the board once or so a week. A lot of the postings
weren‟t of interest to me but sometimes there was a book signing or a poetry reading that grabbed my interest.

But this time it had been a notice about a grief workshop given by one of the psychology professors. I thought it
sounded interesting and made a note of the date and time and phone number to call to register. I‟d almost
forgotten about it until I found my note in the pocket of my leather jacket and remembered that I wanted to
attend. I called the number and gave the woman who answered my name and asked if there were any openings
for the grief workshop. She said the workshop was full but that she would be happy to put my name on a
waiting list in case there were any cancellations.

Now that I couldn‟t attend, I really wanted to so I told the woman, yes, please put my name on the waiting list.
In fact, I wanted so much to go that I‟d called her back a couple of times to check if there was an opening. Each
time she said no, but that she‟d call if one occurred. I was ready to give up on the workshop, as it was just two
days away. Then, I received a phone call from the woman, saying that one of the registrants had cancelled and
was I still interested in attending.

I jumped on the chance and gave her my credit card info to cover the cost of the workshop. I found myself
unusually excited about the workshop. I was interested in using it as background for the book I was currently
writing and I also wanted to see how it applied to my own personal situation. It had been four years since
Matt‟s death and I‟d slowly gotten myself out of mourning and back into life. But I knew that things could be
better and there was the possibility that I could learn something to help in my own adjustment.

The workshop was scheduled to be held in one of the conference areas in the student center at Rivermont U. it
started at noon and was over at 6 p.m. I thought that was a long time but I also thought it was a huge subject so
six hours wasn‟t too long a time with so much ground to cover. I received an e-mail from the woman I‟d
registered with containing materials for me to read before the workshop. I made some time the evening before
the workshop and spent several hours reading, fascinated with the content.

There were several “white papers” written by Dr. Jeffrey Talbot, the professor who was hosting the workshop.
I‟d never heard of him but his credentials seemed impressive. And I must admit I was truly impressed by the
white papers.

In the papers, Dr. Talbot provided background on ways that various cultures dealt with grief. One of the
opinions he stated was that Americans tried to shove grief under the carpet or in the closet, and usually didn‟t
allow themselves sufficient time and permission to mourn adequately and completely. That really hit home with
me.

When Matt died, I felt obligated to put on a good face, to adjust well to my loss, at least publicly. But privately,
I was dying inside myself. Mom and Dad were the only ones who understood what I was going through and
they were there for me night and day. Thank heavens they insisted that I move in with them after Matt‟s wake
and funeral. They wouldn‟t take no for an answer.

I had put on my strong brave façade and had said I was fine on my own. But that wasn‟t acceptable to them. In
fact, they came with me to my condo, packed up my things, and bullied me into accompanying them home. The
moment I walked in their front door, I collapsed, truly collapsed. Dad had to half-carry me to the room I‟d lived
much of my life in.

For the next few days, I didn‟t get out of bed and that was fine with Mom and Dad. They made sure I had at
least something to eat and drink and they spent time with me, but otherwise they left me alone to grieve. And
grieve I did. I thought I would tear my insides out from crying. Once I accidentally caught sight of my face in
the bathroom mirror – I‟d avoided looking in mirrors since Matt‟s death – and I saw a stranger there. Puffy
eyes, sunken cheeks, pinched lips, straggly hair – nothing like Matt‟s princess, as he‟d called me. I‟d thrown
myself back on the bed, buried my face in an already damp pillow, and once again sobbed my heart out.

It took weeks for me to finally begin to emerge from the despair. I had the luxury of falling to pieces and not
having to worry about a job or a family to take care of, the things which most people had to concern themselves
with. My parents were so wise, to let me suffer in my own way and not insist that I follow some prescribed
ritual of mourning.

Finally, a month after Matt‟s death, I‟d begun to emerge from the cocoon of grief in which I‟d wrapped myself.
My first foray into the world was a brief trip to my condo to check up on things. After Mom and Dad had me
come stay with them, they'd kept an eye on my condo. The first thing they'd done was to bring my kitties over
to their house. The kitties had spent their time with me. Sometimes lying next to me in bed, and sometimes, ever
the fearless hunters, perched at the windows, looking for birds and squirrels.
It was a Monday morning and Mom and Dad had left an hour before for the law office. They'd brought my jeep
over and had parked it in the turnaround in the front of their house. The keys were on the key rack in the kitchen
and I grabbed those and my purse, which had sat untouched for a month on the entry hall table.

I'd done a minimal touch up to my face an hair, just to ensure that I wouldn't shock anyone that I might run into
I'd lost weight so my clothes hung on me. All in all, I looked and felt like something out of a concentration
camp. But that couldn't be helped.

In the jeep, I realized how long it had been since I'd driven. But as with riding a bike, driving came back
automatically.

And of course, I'd used some of what I went through in my next mystery. As a writer, I couldn't keep myself
from writing about some of what I went through.

As I drove, I felt the tears begin to slide down my cheeks. I pulled off the road in a small turn-around and sat
there with engine idling. This was not acceptable, I kept saying over and over to myself. Gradually, the tears
stopped and I began to believe the words I was repeating. This wasn't acceptable. I would not accept a life
where all I did was cry.

For the millionth time, or so it seemed, I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. I'd learned to keep tissues at hand at
all times. From my purse, I pulled out my little make-up bag and once again did damage control.

1 sat there for a few minutes, taking deep breaths and trying like the dickens to relax, to let myself go. The sun
was shining, it was a beautiful day out, and I didn't want to spend any more time crying.

lust for the heck of it, I turned on the CD player and was surprised to hear the book on tape I'd been listening to
before Matt died. It was an old John Grisham book that I'd missed reading or listening to the first time around
and I found myself listening intently, trying to remember what had happened previously in the story. To my
surprise, it was 15 minutes later and I'd been engrossed in the book. I gave my head a little shake, and then
pulled back onto the road, still listening to the book on tape - and I listened the rest of the way to my condo.

When I arrived at my driveway, I opened the garage door with my automatic opener, and then pulled directly in
the garage. I turned off the engine and sat there for a moment, getting up my courage to go inside. Thank God
Matt hadn't been living with me. If that had been the case, I don't think I could have ever set foot in the place
again. He'd spend the night every once in awhile and I'd stayed at his place but we hadn't moved in together,
because of his position. As he so eloquently told me, with that big goofy grin on his face, he didn't think his
parishioners would have approved of him shacking up with me.

Finally, I got out of the Jeep and went into the condo. The garage opened into a combination laundry room / mud
room, although to the best of my knowledge, there'd never been any mud in the room.

In the kitchen, I stopped and looked around. From all appearance, nothing had changed but somehow
everything had changed. It was as is if I were standing in a place I'd never seen before. I looked around at the
cabinets, the appliances, the copper pots hanging over the kitchen island, nothing seemed familiar. I'd lived here
for years but now I didn't recognize anything.
I walked over to the kitchen island and pulled out one of the tall, high-backed chairs. I sat down, placing my
handbag on the counter in front of me. The place was totally silent, except of the tick of the battery-powered clock
mounted on the wall opposite where I sat.

Once upon a time, I had loved my condo - it had felt like home - a warm and cozy place where I could relax and
enjoy just doing nothing at all. But now somehow that had changed. I felt like an alien here, an unwelcome intruder
and I didn't know why.
I didn't want to sell the place and move somewhere else. This was where I wanted to live, in Edelweiss, close to my
parents and a couple of my friends. Deciding that I had to deal with this alienation problem here and now, I got up
and went to make myself a cup of tea. I had a favorite, a raspberry blend. When the tea was ready and sweetened
with artificial sweetener, I took the cup upstairs to the loft office where I did my writing.

I hadn't written a word of fiction since Matt's death. Actually, I hadn't written a word of anything. Since childhood,
I'd kept a diary. I called it a journal now but the idea was the same. My journal was right where I'd left it the last time
I'd been in my office - in the middle drawer of the oak library table I used as a desk.

I took out the journal and placed on the desk. Then I turned on my desktop computer. When Mom and Dad had packed
things for me to stay with them, they'd brought my laptop with them but I hadn't touched it. It was as though I'd
turned my back on my former life and everything connected with it.

I sat in front of the computer, not knowing what I intended to do but knowing full well what I definitely would not do
-1 would not, under any circumstances, access my e-mail. I'd had enough difficulty dealing with the condolence
cards. In fact, I'd quickly reached a point where I no longer could even open them, much less read the kind and loving
messages inside. I'd very carefully stored all of them in an elegant old hatbox that had belonged to my great-
grandmother. The hat box had been shoved way back on the closet shelf in my girlhood bedroom and I returned it to
that location.

1 opened a browser window and looked at the news on Yahoo! Same-old, same-old, or so it seemed. The President
was falling in the approval rating business, one of the American Idol winners was trash-talking one of the runners-up,
and so on.

Finally, I just sat there staring at the monitor. And I think this was the moment when I knew I was going to be okay. I
think this was the moment I decided to ride out the grief with my writing.

1 opened Microsoft Word and began frantically typing, not caring about typos, not even caring much about what 1
was writing. What I did care about was the fact that I was writing. That was a miracle to me and I intended to take full
advantage of it.

The rest, as they say, is history. Six months later, I had a completed mystery, the first one I'd written that I felt
confident about. I worked on it for another few months, combining work on the novel with work in the law office. Yes,
I'd been able to go back although I hadn't done any courtroom work.

After Mom's college roommate had sold the novel and my life changed so drastically, I'd cut back on work at the law
office, with Mom and Dad's complete endorsement. They'd always known that law was a temp job for me and that
writing was my avocation and my passion.
                        •
Mom had said to me shortly after the book sold, "What Dad and I want to know is what took you so long?"

I'd grinned at her and said "I guess I'm just a slow starter. Seriously, I don't know what the block was that was
preventing me from writing in earnest but somehow that roadblock is gone and now I know I can do this and I want to
do this."

So my new life has been super. I only wish Matt could be here to enjoy it with me. Somehow the loss of him led to this
new thing for me - but I would give up the new life in a heartbeat to have Matt back.

                                                                                                                         86
Perry Jones

Four years ago, that Leslie woman destroyed my life. She's the reason that Teresa is gone.

My beautiful Teresa was my soul mate. We'd met in high school and married soon right after graduation, because T
was pregnant. That's what I always called her - T. I'm not sure she liked that, though. She complained that T sounded
like some kind of action hero and that Teresa was such a lovely name so why didn't I use her name instead of a stupid
alphabet letter.

T -1 mean Teresa lost the baby a month after we were married. There'd been a little problem where she'd sort of
tripped or something and fell down some steps and that was the end of the baby. I don't really remember too clearly
what happened because I think I'd had too much to drink. Actually, I was passed out and T -1 mean Teresa, had to get
a neighbor to take her to the emergency room. It wasn't a good time. The worst part of it, at least as far as Teresa was
concerned was that because it took so long for her to get to a hospital, there was some damage that meant she couldn't
have kids.

That was all right with me. I never really wanted kids anyway. They cost too much money and take too much time.
But it was a bummer for Teresa and she went into some kind of blue funk that I thought she'd never come out of. She
said the doctor called it postpartum something and she had to take some real expensive pills for about a year - what a
waste of money, I thought but it was one of those things.

Then came some other bad times when I had some problems with T doing what I wanted her to do. Actually,
sometimes I had to use a little force to convince her. And then she started threatening to leave me and I had to do a bit
of threatening back - like I'd do some harm to her Mom.

Her Mom was in a wheelchair and can't get around too well. She lived with T's brother and sister-in-law just a few
blocks from our trailer park. The house they lived in had a basement with a steep starirway leading down to a concrete
floor and I explained to T what could happen to her Mom if the wheelchair went down the stairs. That kept her in line
for awhile, especially with some additional persuasion from me.

But then unfortunately, T's Mom died, all on her own, mind you. It wasn't any of my doing although T accused me of
hastening it along. All I did was a little shouting about needing money and a few threats about what might happen to
T if I didn't get the money I needed.

Well, T's brother Albert heard the hoohah and asked me to leave. Actually, he pretty much threw me out so I had to
take care of that also. Right after that, T's Mom had a stroke and didn't make it. And to top it all off, it turns out that
she'd put all her money in her son's name and T didn't get a dime, at least not directly. I'll bet the old woman did that to
keep me from getting the money from T.

So once T's Mom was dead I didn't have much leverage over her. The day of the funeral T walked out on me without a
word.

I went on a rampage at her brother's house, thinking that was where she had gone but no such luck. She was nowhere
to be found. Needless to say, I was not a happy camper about this turn of events. I hunkered down in our trailer,
deciding to play a waiting game because there didn't seem to be much else I could do. I'd gone to T's brother's house a
couple of times looking for her but that ended badly. Her brother called the cops each time. The first time, the cop let
me off with a warning. The next time he took me down to the station and I had to spend the night. But again, they let
off with a warning. Then the third time, they arrested me and I had to pay bail to get out of jail.

A week later, there was a knock at the door and when I opened it, there was a fat guy in a sheriffs uniform with a
manila envelope in his hand.
He said, Perry Jones?

And when I said "Yes," he slapped the envelope in my hand and said, "You've been served."

[ gotta admit I stood there open-mouthed, clutching the manila envelope. Finally, I opened it and found that T had Bled
for divorce. That was the beginning of the end. And the end is about to happen for that bitch, Leslie Davis.

Leslie

After Matt's death, as I was becoming fanatical about writing, I took on one more case, a divorce case for a friend of a
friend.

The woman's name was Teresa Jones and she was referred to me by one of my oldest and dearest friends, Maria
Adams. Maria was a psychologist who specialized in abuse cases and Teresa was one of her clients.

Maria set up the appointment at the law firm and accompanied Teresa to the office. I was glaH to see Maria - it was the
first time in awhile, actually since Matt's funeral, because I'd been in hibernation.

Maria hugged me briefly, then introduced Teresa. We went into one of the conference rooms, rather than using my
office for the meeting. I thought clients felt more comfortable sitting around a conference table rather than having me
sit behind my desk.

1 had asked my secretary to have a coffee and soda tray available in the conference room. After we'd aD gotten
something to drink -c coffee for me, water for Maria and Pepsi for Teresa, we sat down around the table.

1 had my yellow legal pad in front of me and Maria and Teresa each had their handbags on the table in front of them.
Maria's was an interesting Dooney & Burke that was orange with black Scotty dogs all over it. Maria had ahrays beei
into Scottys and unusual purses so this was perfect for her. Teresa's purse was an interesting backpack that had a
smiley face prominently featured on one side.

Maria had told me that Teresa was in her late 30s so I was surprised at such a juvenile purse. Perhaps that was an
important indicator about my potential client.

[ opened the official part of the meeting by saying, "Well, now, Teresa, why don't you tell me why you're here,"

Teresa raised her head to look first at Maria, who smiled reassuringly at her and then at me.

[n a soft voice, she said, "I'm here to find out about getting a divorce from my husband."

That was all she said and she lowered her eyes again. I could see that I was going to have to pull the story out of her.

"Tell me about your husband," I said, hoping the open-ended question would help her to talk/

'His name is Perry Jones and he's 25, five years older than me. We've been married two years. We got married right
after I graduated from high school.'" She paused here and continued in a softer voice. "I got pregnant and so that's wh}
we got married. My Daddy pretty much forced Perry to step up and marry me."

Teresa took a long drink of soda, and then continued. "I lost the baby. And then I couldn't have children anymore."

At those stark words, my heart went out to the girl. I glanced over at Maria and knew instinctively that she felt the same
wav. Teresa bowed her head even further and said in a voice barely over a whisper. "See, Perry is kind ot rough with rm

                                                                                                                           85
That's how I lost the baby. And since then, the roughness keeps happening and more often. He always claims it's
because he's been drinking and because I've done things to make him mad."




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